


Distraction

by TrulyCertain



Series: I like big plots and I cannot lie (Kink Meme prompts) [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: AU, Circle, F/M, Kink Meme, Templar!Alistair, Templar/Mage, plot-without-porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's one of them who's always stationed in the library. Every time she's there, he's standing guard, and she knows that it's <b>him</b>, in particular, not one of his comrades, because he <b>fidgets.</b></i>
</p><p>Written for a prompt at the k!meme: "Alistair became a templar and is stationed at the circle. He falls in love with a female mage PC. Looking for romance, lust and quick trysts in corners, trying to be quiet so that they are not caught."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Limericks

_How can a bird that is born for joy_   
_Sit in a cage and sing?_

**-William Blake**

 

 

There's one of them who's always stationed in the library. Every time she's there, he's standing guard, and she knows that it's _him_ , in particular, not one of his comrades, because he _fidgets_. The others all seem to have learned some kind of discipline, stand so still she sometimes wonders if they're going to blend into the stone of the tower itself; but he shifts from foot to foot, the armour clanking and creaking as it protests.

Usually, she'd walk past him, but today - _today_ \- she stops, and looks back at him. Not a glare, just a _look_ , unblinking and judgemental. The symphony of plates and leather stops suddenly, and he is conspicuously still, knowing he's been caught out; even beneath the armour, she can tell he's looking straight back at her.

She turns round, beginning to make her way to the healing section, but a sound surprises her, makes her stop abruptly.

A cough... or a suppressed laugh. Armour moving.

She looks back over her shoulder, unable to stop herself, because templars don't _laugh_ ; his helm has moved, and he's obviously looking at the floor, his arms crossed even in the heavy plate, and he's doing it again. Foot to foot. Shuffle shuffle. _Clank clank._

She shakes her head, confused, and carries on.

* * *

 _Clank_. Shuffle.

They really ought to take him off-duty - he'll distract the readers, a few of the mages are looking up from their books even now - and she wonders why they don't.

She gets her answer when she walks past Ser Bran and another templar, and hears a mutter about the library. Pretending to have dropped something, she stops to listen.

"At least he can't cause too much trouble in there," Bran remarks.

"Aye, but he'll probably be slacking, reading all the books," the other one replies, in a voice that implies that this suspicion isn't new or unfounded.

They notice her then, and she straightens, striding quickly away before they can accuse her of eavesdropping.

* * *

The book she's looking for - _Arcane Masterie of Fyre_ (Shelf number 351.764.2, according to the slip in her hand) - is on the Primal shelf, and that is...

She exhales, knowing only too well where it is, and trudges to the shelves right next to...

_Clank._

She grits her teeth, but doesn't even bother looking at him, beginning to search the shelves; soon a few minutes have passed, and she _still_ hasn't been able to locate _Arcane Masterie._ She's just beginning the final search before she gives up and checks the stockroom, when a throat is cleared next to her.

She does look at him this time, struggling to keep the frustration out of her face.

She actually jumps when he says very quietly, obviously not wanting the mages or other templars to hear him, "One of the apprentices, ah, moved it. It's over there somewhere, in the Creation section." A steel gauntlet rises in a despairing, vague gesture. His voice is younger than she expected it to be - he doesn't sound like the steel-plated old men who have been trapped too long here - and it's Fereldan.

There is a surprised pause before she manages to say, "I... Thank you." Just as she is setting off for said section, she pauses as she hears him clear his throat once again, and he adds under his breath, "There's a pretty good limerick on page three hundred and five." Another few _clanks_ and creaks, and she knows he has stepped back into position, resumed his watch as if nothing has happened. To many in the library, nothing has.

* * *

He's right about the limerick. She raises her eyebrows as she turns to it, and they climb higher as she reads until she thinks they're about to rise from her forehead altogether.

* * *

She doesn't know why, but, as she's about to visit the library once again, she slides the book out from under her bed; inside, the margins are darkened with the efforts of many other apprentices before her, scribbled doodles and poems ribald enough to make even Enchanter Wynne blush.

She has every right to be smited - smote? - for this. Templars are not meant to overstep their bounds, cannot communicate informally with the mages...

As she slips _Arcane Masterie_ back onto the right shelf, letting out a breath at the familiar armour noises next to her - they never seem to rotate their guard except at night, which only feeds her suspicions that they are, indeed, shutting him in here constantly to keep him out of trouble - she looks at him, hesitantly holding out the other book, ready to be ignored or punished for her imprudence. Her words are so small as to almost be a breath. "If it's limericks you want..."

The helm droops nearly onto his chest as he looks at it, and she hears a soft intake of breath and, "For me?" Then he reaches out a hand and takes it, almost as nervously as it was offered (she notices the gentleness, the fact that he seems taken aback, that it is not just her), placing it hastily onto the shelf behind him. "Thank you."

She can't help her surprise, and nearly walks away again, astonished at her own boldness. Something stops her, however, and she pretends to browse the shelves near him as she asks, in a mutter that's almost a whisper, "Ser... Is it possible to read in those helms?"

An huff of an out-breath that's most _definitely_ a laugh next to her, echoing slightly because of the steel, and his voice is wry. (Can templars _be_ wry? She doesn't know. She certainly never thought so, but she didn't think they read dirty limericks, either.) "Think we wear these things to bed, do you?"

And suddenly - she's seen helmless templars, like Sers Greagoir and Cullen, but she'd assumed that was because of rank - she realises they must take them off to eat, to sleep... They're still men under the armour, after all. Her gaze darts to him, and she suddenly wonders what he looks like, wonders what kind of face would go with the voice she hears; it intrigues her. "I had never... considered it, ser," is her quiet reply.

And indeed, she hadn't, but as she walks from the library, as she stares at the bunk above, sleepless, she wonders.

* * *

The next time she visits the library, it's to find books on the Entropy and Primal schools, at old Sweeney's request. Forgetful he may be, these days, but the Enchanter isn't forgetful enough to let her shirk a task. She'll be scrubbing the floor of his room for a week in abject humiliation if she doesn't do this now.

As she enters the room, she hears a conspicuous yawn, and turns her head before she can stop herself.

The helm goes a little off-kilter when she does, a... cock of the head, she realises. He's watching her.

When she's taken _Wrath With Rocks_ \- a thick, academic-looking tome with a title that, in its ridiculousness, makes her struggle not to laugh - she's not as surprised as she should be when the book from the other day is pressed into her hands with a murmur of, "One to treasure, I'd say."

She doesn't realise she's smiling until she feels it on her face.


	2. Serendipity

There is a Harrowing, a week later. Keris - bright, laughing Keris, who frequently expressed his eagerness and readiness for the ritual, who read every book he could get his hands on, "just in case" - does not return from the chamber.

She mourns the loss of yet another friend - because she still sees Jowan sometimes, dusting or stocking shelves, and his eyes, his voice, are so blank and empty of emotion even when he says her name, and she wonders what might have happened if he had asked her to escape with him - and, along with Lerie and Joseph, watches the candle flicker long into the night. When it finally burns out, she waits for the wax to cool and puts it with the others, in memory.

* * *

When she goes to return _Wrath_ , something is amiss, and it takes her a few moments to place what it is.

No _clank_.

No - he's barely moving, as if he's perfected the quietness of his fellows, that melting into the stone, and she tries to pretend she's not looking at him as she places the tome carefully back in the Primal section.

She's come to half-expect some word from him, some acknowledgement that she's there, but today, he's still, silent, watchful.

Just like any other templar. She shivers, and looks over her shoulder as she leaves the library.

* * *

"Did you see him yesterday?" Bran says to his fellow templar. "He hesitated. He _hesitated._ "

"He's damned already," replies the other, the sound echoing in his helm. "Tell me he's not a sympathiser."

Bran sighs, shaking his head. "He won't last long, if he is. That said, it _was_ only his second abomination, and no-one thought Keris had it in him..."

"It doesn't matter. I killed mine at the order. Templars aren't meant to hang around like slack-jawed idiots."

They catch her watching them, and Bran says firmly, "On your way, apprentice."

* * *

The templar is as still as he was last time she entered the library, and it unnerves her. She wonders, suddenly...

"Ser?" she asks, hesitantly, as she runs a hand over the spine of the Primal books, pretending to be looking for one.

"Mage," says a stranger's voice shortly from inside the helm, and she tries not to jump.

As she had feared.

"I... apologise, ser. It was not important," she says, and wonders why her chest feels hollow.

"Good." The reply is curt. "On your way, apprentice." She grits her teeth at the all-too-familiar brush-off, and obeys.

* * *

It happens a few days later, and it's a chance discovery, a lucky coincidence.

Norren has always had a sharp side to him, an angry, constant aching for fights that is neither appealing nor good for his health. She wonders if it's because, like all of them, he is trapped in this oppressive place, and she's tried to sympathise, to not make her opinion of him too harsh.

But since the loss of Keris - who always managed, somehow, to calm him down, to smooth off some of his rougher edges - by the _Maker_ , he's not making it easy.

It doesn't help that she turned down his offer of "companionship" in a supply cupboard a few days ago, either, and since then he's been snide, unfair with her. He forgets that he is not the only one who lost a friend, not the one who lit a candle in the young apprentice's memory.

The not-quite-shove (more than a simple, accidental brush, enough to feel his elbow through both of their robes), as a few of them come back from working through shielding spells with Enchanter Torrin isn't entirely unexpected. It still sends her careening forwards, books sliding out from under her crossed arms and falling to the floor. She curses, catching herself on a nearby wall. She turns to watch the surly mage walk away, shouts after him, "Still haven't grown up, Norren?"

She's surprised he even tries it, this close to Irving's office, but the First Enchanter turns a blind eye to everything and everyone, saying loudly that he worries about all and protecting none; even his "pet mage", as some of the others call her, not-so-affectionately.

_Clank._

She freezes and looks up, then shakes her head at her own foolishness - all of the templars wear armour, after all - and starts to pick up her books with a sigh. She hears the templar a couple of feet from her stride to the small heap; he bends (the action obviously laborious in heavy plate, taking longer than it should), and hands her a couple of the books, his touch careful rather than simply piling them into her arms. As they both straighten (him slowly and creakily), they glance at each other, and she catches a glimpse of eyes, muddy-gold, kind and very _human_ , under the helm.

The familiar, sarcastic voice confirms it; he leans as he says it, looks down the corridor as if to glare after the mage himself. "Well, he seems like a simply _charming_ fellow."

The snort comes before she can suppress it, and she looks right into where she knows his eyes are. "Ser?" she finally asks, her voice cautious, not knowing what to say.

There is a pause and another creak of armour as he seems to check the corridor - it's near empty, everyone having gone to the mages' feasting hall - and then he explains, "They moved me out of the library after my first Harrowing. Said I'd 'proved myself', however clumsily." His tone is resentful.

His first...? But he isn't a _mage..._ Then it hits her, and she takes a step back from him out of sheer impulse, the word screamed silently in her head, over and over. _Mage-killer_.

She sees him stiffen, then he seems to... slump, even in armour, as he notices the reaction. "Maker, I didn't _want_ to do it." And that surprises her, it really does, because all of the mages who came back had said that seemed as if it had been regarded as an honour, a right, taking the final blow. "I nearly let the abomination kill me before I..." She hears him swallow, the sound loud in the silence.

" _He hesitated. He_ hesitated."

" _Templars aren't meant to hang around like slack-jawed idiots._ "

"... _No-one thought Keris had it in him._.."

 _Keris_. She realises that she's said it aloud, and the templar asks, his voice very quiet, "Friend of yours?" She nods, gulping back the lump in her throat, and he surprises her - like he has so many times before, it seems now - by saying, "I'm sorry. I really am. He came at us like... like nothing _human.._."

She hears the fear, the despair in his voice then. He is miserable. He _hesitated_.

She looks up as the ring of the third bell echoes through the tower, and hears herself say, as if from a distance, "I... I should eat."

As she walks away, she _feels_ his eyes upon her.


	3. Rain

It takes her a week before she has the time and courage to speak to him again.

The third bell rings as she trudges along the corridor outside Irving's office, and, apart from a few stragglers, the corridor is nearly abandoned. She catches sight of a templar, shoulders slumped, beginning to make his way to the third floor, to the templars' quarters and where they must eat; he turns, hearing her footsteps, and the breathless mage stands before him, praying he is the one she's looking for.

"What are you - ?" he begins, his voice puzzled but familiar, and she breathes a sigh of relief. Then he makes to turn around again, and she thinks she hears a small sigh inside the helmet...

She does the hardest thing she has ever done: she looks at Keris's killer, remembers the misery in his voice and the tales of abominations, and tries to forgive him. _Mage-killer_ , whispers a voice in her head. _It wasn't Keris by then,_ whispers another, equally furiously, and they battle each other for dominance until the second voice, somehow, wins.

"Ser... have you ever seen a sunset?" The words are dazed, and they fall from her mouth in a rush.

He pauses, and he turns, slowly, as if the movement requires careful thought, looking down at her in silence. "Yes," he says, eventually. "Yes, I have."

"What was it like?"

A definite sigh, and he shakes his head, the helm clanking. "Red, gold... beautiful." His voice is far away for a moment, and the awed hush in it takes her aback - she knows they are meant to be pious, but she has never heard a templar sound like this before; it's so... _vulnerable_ , she thinks suddenly, finding the word, almost childlike, and it surprises her. Then he seems to snap back to the present, and his voice is brisk. "What does this have to do with anything? Aren't you going to run from the evil templar again?"

She steps forward, opening her mouth, and this time the shake of the head is hers...

A laugh echoes from further down the corridor, and she turns sharply as Joseph staggers round the corner, doubled up from laughter, his arm round one of the younger apprentices. All of them are livelier away from the gaze of the templars. Of course - the others will be starting to return from the hall now... 

Joseph pauses as he sees her, shooting a glance at the templar - the undisguised hostility in his eyes makes her wince - and then relaxing back into his former pose, sauntering towards her. He casually drapes his other arm round her, begins to pull her with him, taking the templar's silence as a sign that it's safe to do so.

She looks over her shoulder, helplessly dragged into her friend's orbit, but Joseph leans into her ear and hisses, "What did he do? Catch you healing? Maker, one of them pulled a smite on me the other day for that. Try to clean up a bruise and they treat you like a damned _maleficar..."_

"No," she protests, trying to get one last look at the familiar armoured figure. "He was... telling me what a sunset looks like."

Something like disgust crosses Joseph's face, and he keeps on pulling her with him. She doesn't try and explain it again, knowing that it's futile.

* * *

The next day, she is walking past the door when she hears something from Bran about "Maker-given incompetence" and "getting sent to the blighted library again", and this time, she finally learns her templar's name.

* * *

It isn't just the storm - the thunder only coming through in the occasional low _boom_ , muffled by the stone - that causes a stir in the tower.

Exactly half of the templars troop in through the heavy doors; rainwater runs down their armour in rivulets, dropping to the floor with occasional _plink_ s and _plunk_ s.

The mages in the entrance hall can't help themselves - some of them turn and stare, others pretend not to watch. She's one of them.

Irving strides into the hall to greet Greagoir, who is leading the templars, helmless, his hair plastered to his face, his expression stony, as if not even the weather is immune to his disapproval. "The storm disrupted training," he explains tersely at Irving's questioning look. He carries on through the room, the clanking and creaking rising to a loud chorus as the others follow him. The First Enchanter falls into step with him, beginning to speak to him in hushed tones.

She doesn't even know if he's there, if he's one of the half ordered to stay behind and watch the mages, but she instinctively looks for the odd one out. She gives up her search after a moment, knowing it's foolish and very aware of Joseph's presence beside her, and lets out a low sigh.

As the group is about to disappear through the second set of doors, she sees one of them turn. It's a brief look, only a second or so, but it's definitely aimed at her. She fights the urge to raise a hand in recognition, and looks to her side at Joseph's sharp question.

"What are you smiling at?"

"I'm not," she says, and it abruptly drops from her face.

* * *

"Rain?"

The templar seems surprised at the question - it's in his voice. She's caught him, once again, as he was about to go to eat; he could easily brush her off, make excuses to leave, but he stops and seems to consider it, raising a hand to his helm, as if to...

A huff of a laugh escapes her at the motion.

 _"What?"_ he says, looking sharply down at her, his voice wounded and a little suspicious.

"You can't stroke your chin," she explains quietly, still smiling, embarrassed and knowing it's juvenile.

His own small, relieved laugh joins her own at that, and the helm creaks as he shakes his head, then he says, "Rain is... Well, it's cold, wet, trickles down the back of your neck. Makes you know you're Fereldan because there's so _much_ of it. Surprisingly refreshing, actually." He sighs, and there's that wistful tone again. "It's... been a while..."

Since it fell, or since he felt it? There's a pause as something occurs to her, and she asks hesitantly, "They lock you in here too?"

A sigh. "You could say that, yes. They try and exercise us in here. We rarely get to train outside, but a little fresh air does wonders."

"Wonders," she echoes quietly, lost in thought, and she suddenly feels sorry for him. "Why would anyone volunteer to stay in _here?_ " Without sunsets, without thunderstorms, without fresh air...

The helm moves, and she catches a glimpse of his eyes again as he meets her gaze. His reply is quiet. "I didn't."

She stares up at him for a moment, only realising her mouth is open when she closes it. "Didn't?"

"I was taken to the Chantry when I was ten," he replies, the hint of a sigh creeping into his voice. "It's what happens to most of us. I didn't _want_ to go. I tried to run away a few times..."

It's familiar. Horribly familiar. There were rumours of a trapdoor that led to the lake for a while, or of a stone that, if you pressed it, would reveal a secret door that the templars used... "Like us," she breathes.

"A little more fresh air, maybe, but yes. Anyhow," he continues, looking to the nearest wall, and his voice is horribly false-cheerful, "they soon beat that out of me, and since I had nowhere else to go, they forced me through my vows and transferred me here." He shrugs, his pauldrons rising. "The food's better than the Chantry's, if nothing else."

The silence echoes. She's still watching him, the strength of her horror surprising her.

He seems nervous as he says, "Speaking of the food..." He nods towards the stairs to the templar floor, starts to make the climb.

"I had no idea," she finally manages.

He pauses halfway up the stairs, his head rising to look at her. "No," he says, his voice rueful. "No-one does." He steps through the door - not needing to seek approval from the templar guard that usually hovers next to it, since he is that guard - and the door closes softly behind him.

She stands, looking at where he was, only moving as she hears the clanking footsteps of the templar sent to replace him on the watch.


	4. Discoveries

She can't sleep.

She hasn't been able to sleep for hours, staring at the bunk above her, hands behind her head and breathing loud in her ears.

She has an image, suddenly, of a frightened child - and the child changes in her mind every time she imagines it, different ideas swirling round her head of what he could have looked like - fighting and kicking and being dragged up the steps, past stained-glass windows...

She remembers the pictures of Chantries in the books she used to read, how large and imposing they seemed. She screws her eyes tightly shut, trying to block out the image, but it stays in her head, making her chest ache. She rolls over with a sigh, staring at the wall instead, but the scene flashes behind her eyes every time she tries to close them.

* * *

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Norren hisses at her as she fumbles the fire spell for the second time, the flames beginning to build and then flickering out in her hand, leaving empty air and a humiliating sense of failure in their wake.

She is distracted and tired, she wants to explain, but she knows he is only trying to needle her. Shaking her head, she ignores him, frowning, and pulls the flames from her mind into her hand; they flicker, towering higher as she works, and then she lets go, throwing them at the wall ahead and stepping back to a safe distance. A loud _bang_ , a plume of flame, and Senior Enchanter Torrin nods approvingly, giving her a small smile. "Excellent work, apprentice."

She tries to smile back, but the emptiness in the pit of her stomach is still there.

As she leaves the room, heading into the corridor leading to the dining hall, her heart lifts slightly. He makes light of everything - he'll probably find some way to make her smile, to get rid of this feeling. She could ask him about swimming...

She rounds the corner, and her face and heart drop as she recognises the posture of the guard in his place, the way the templar carries himself.

It isn't him.

* * *

She hasn't been to this aisle for a long time. She forgets the divisions, where the right books are, and her hands are cautious and unfamiliar as she runs them over the spines.

_Miles's Botanie_ , reads the one she's been looking for, and she pulls it out, enjoying the soft hiss of the leather cover sliding out from the shelf.

She looks around furtively for a moment, takes a seat in the near-abandoned corner of the library, opening the book to the right page.

_Great Oak_ , the entry reads, and she runs a finger over the illustration, the long, flowing trunk and spreading canopy of leaves; stretching, shading, almost protective. The chair is straight-backed and uncomfortable, but if she closes her eyes for a moment, she can almost pretend that it's knotted bark, that there's a breeze ruffling her hair like the ones that occasionally make their way in on the few occasions the door is opened. The sun is warm on her face as she leans her head back against her tree, a small smile curling her lips.

She feels a small touch on her hand, and she nearly jumps, her eyes still closed, until she realises that it's familiar, warm fingers closing over hers, another settling on the grass beside her with a sigh.

She opens her eyes sharply, looking around the library, but in her little corner, half-obscured by shelves, no-one has noticed her. She frowns, both at her own childishness and in confusion, standing and replacing the book. Usually she is alone under the oak tree, and this new fantasy makes her uneasy.

The third bell rings, and she picks up her pace, nearly running to the dining hall as her stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly.

She hears a clatter as she's in the corridor, a muttered oath. A collision of armour, it seems.

"Oh, ah... I'm sorry, Cullen."

She looks up, suppressing a smile at the familiar, rather sheepish voice; a templar is standing next to Ser Cullen, a book tucked under one arm, a hand on the other's shoulder as if to steady him. That hand is hastily removed at the exasperated look Cullen gives him. "You should be in the library," Cullen half-sighs, as if used to reprimanding this particular templar. She wonders where his stammer is now.

"I know," the other replies, his voice heavy. He seems to try to hide the book behind his back. "I was just waiting..." He cuts himself off abruptly, as if knowing it's not a good idea to continue, beginning to fidget at Cullen's impatient but slightly curious, "Waiting?"

Her templar shakes his head and says quietly, "It isn't important." You'd have to be listening carefully to hear the edge of panic in his dismissive tone. She is.

Waiting for _her_ , as she does for him? The idea is stupid, impossible, but once in her mind, it won't leave.

"You're one of us," Cullen tells him shortly. "Greagoir will expect better. Aren't you in enough trouble already?" He shakes his head. "You shouldn't have..."

"I know." The other templar's tone is unusually curt, and he steps past Cullen with, "I'm late, if I recall." Cullen mutters something and stalks off in the opposite direction, away from her.

She sees a pause in the other templar's steps, and he has to grip the book more tightly to stop it slipping to the floor as he spots her. He gives a small, surprised but very pleased, "Oh. It's you."

Her heart lifts as she states the obvious. "They moved you."

"Yes. I noticed." His tone is once again wry, and she realises suddenly that she's missed that.

She rolls her eyes anyway, humouring him, and nods in the direction of Cullen's departure. "What was _that_ about?"

The helm squeaks, unoiled, as he shakes his head, looking at the mages milling around them to the hall. They've already been talking for too long in the open. "Another time." At her frown, he adds, "Trust me."

She nods, walks on, and she looks over her shoulder at him as she walks to find her lunch, her gaze dropping to the tome under his arm.

_At least he can't cause too much trouble in there._

_Aye, but he'll probably be slacking, reading all the books._

She smiles.

* * *

She should have a job from one of the Enchanters, a book to borrow, study to devote herself to for a few hours. She has none of these, and she wonders why it bothers her so.

She has no excuse. She realises this, and gives up after only a few moments of trying to grasp for one.

She makes a beeline for the Primal section immediately, and as she runs a hand over a few books of the Lightning shelves, she murmurs, "Trouble?"

Recalling their earlier words, there's a pause, another creak, before he replies bitterly, "Apparently I hadn't 'proved myself' quite as much as they'd hoped." She looks at him, and he's adjusting his gauntlets, shifting from foot to foot. "Dorin was injured. An explosion with a few potions. An apprentice tried to heal him; he reacted... _badly_ , shall we just say."

Dorin? She realises that he must mean one of the templars - she's only used to being on first-name terms with apprentices and mages, and this difference between them, small as it is, is one of the things that makes her hackles rise. "Badly how?" At the templar's silence, she asks, "Badly _how?"_

"Anders got a smite and a broken jaw for his trouble. Mild, really, considering how Dorin usually is..." She can hear the distaste in his voice for a fellow knight, and it surprises her, as does what he says next. "I took the mage's side, explained he'd been healing. Not that anyone actually _listened_ to me, of course." She swears, if she could _hear_ a roll of the eyes, she'd be doing so now. _"'Alistair's a nuisance to the Order, lock him in the library where he can't cause any trouble...'"_

He stops, freezes as he seems to register what he's just said, and she quickly assures him, "I knew your name, Ser."

Without the helm, he'd be meeting her eye; he seems to digest her reply. "You _did?_ Then why didn't you _use_ it?"


	5. A Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating changed because I frankly have no _idea_ where this fill is going, and I'll change it later if it needs it.

_Why didn't you_ use _it?_

He is a templar. She is a mage. A name is familiar, common ground, it's a bond...

"Ser Alistair?" she said, her voice sounding very small to her ears.

A clanking nod, his reply warm and teasing. "Don't think you're getting out of it that easily." And he asked for her name.

She's still half-unable to believe that it actually happened, the ease with which she gave him his answer. She heard his smile - wished, suddenly, that she could _see_ it, if it was as kind as his voice - as he commented, "Very pretty."

She'd felt a blush rise to heat her cheeks before she could stop it. A blush, for a _templar._ What was she thinking? She prayed he hadn't noticed, but at his low laugh, she knew he had.

A name is a bond.

* * *

She chews slowly at the beef stew, her thoughts elsewhere (a smile in a voice and a blush in her cheeks), and it's only when a robed hand is waved in front of her face that she jumps, the spoon dropping back into her bowl.

"Someone was Fadewalking," an amused voice says, and she meets the eye of a smiling Joseph. "Back in the waking world, are we?"

She nods, her smile and the images in her head fading, and she follows the dart of Joseph's thumb as he looks over to another table with a sigh of, "Poor bastard."

Anders's face is battered and swollen, even with healing, and it's clear that his nose has been hastily and painfully reset. Not by a healer, then. By a templar? She winces.

_I took the mage's side._

She shakes her head, looks back to her stew. Then she notices the course next to it, the silvered skin and the soft white fillet beneath...

* * *

"Have I fished? I grew up in _Redcliffe."_ He laughs, as if his reply explains everything, and at her blank look adds a small, "Oh. Right. Redcliffe is a fishing village, right on the other side of the lake." He gestures forward, as if she could look across clear waters and see the docks...

She closes her eyes, imagines doing so, and it's only his voice that shakes her out of her daydream. "You don't remember passing through Redcliffe? How young _were_ you when they took you here?"

She murmurs something to the stone floor, and after another attempt, he manages to coax from her lips, "Three summers."

A pause in which she detects clearly his horror, and she feels something cold under her chin; she nearly flinches back, but his gauntleted hand only gently nudges her jaw, making her look up at him again. "Maker, I'm sorry..." he breathes, and then he swiftly snatches his hand back as he seems to realise what he's done, as if he expects her to run from him again.

She doesn't. She stands her ground, a fading tingle under her chin, and then she asks, "Were you good at it?"

His own shock seems to lessen as the question registers, and he says eventually, "Fishing?" He snorts under his helm. "They used to tell me I'd scare away all the fish. Constantly covered in mud and unable to keep still, always threatening to turn the boat over..."

She laps up every word.

* * *

Anders's nose is healing.

Over the course of the week, it has seemed to improve, until his face is nearly back to its normal colour, the bruises all but faded. The memories haven't, however, for any of them, and there are still whispers about him in the corridors, pitying looks and half-conversations that stop abruptly when he comes into view. He darts them a glance as they file out of the Creation class, a half-flinch as if he expects gossip or even a slap. She wonders how used he is to such things.

But whenever the incident is mentioned, it isn't the mage she thinks of - it's the odd templar that defended him.

She jumps at Joseph's gentle tug on her sleeve. "Why don't you eat with me anymore?" he asks.

She frowns, surprised. "I do."

"When the meal's just about over, yes. You're always in the blighted _library_."

"I'm... I'm studying..." she stutters in reply, feeling sudden colour begin to grow in her cheeks and wondering why.

Joseph raises an eyebrow. "You used to be _fun."_

She mimics him with a brow of her own, crossing her arms and countering, "I can be fun in the library."

He sighs, shaking his head, and slings an arm round her shoulder, leading her to the dining hall. She doesn't feel like protesting, and slips into step with him; as Norren passes, Joseph casually sticks a foot out, ignoring the loud _"Oof!"_ behind them. They don't even look back at the floored mage, and Joseph smiles, offering her a bright, "There. Sorted."

She gapes at him.

"Come on, you _know_ you wanted to do it..."

* * *

When she eventually makes it to the library, she's surprised to hear a mutter at the other side of the room. She approaches slowly, her footsteps cautious.

"You take your appointed dose, always." It's a furious whisper. "You've seen the process of withdrawal. It's only lucky that it was reported before..." The voice trails off. "You _fool."_

"I... apologise, ser." The familiar voice is unusually flat, and the apology doesn't sound particularly sincere.

Greagoir seems to ignore this, and says briskly, "Good. You should be - "

Her templar's helm moves, and she knows he's seen her; the other, senior templar turns at the movement, and regards her for a long moment, stopping abruptly. "Greetings, mage."

"Ser." She nods, walking past them, and Greagoir strides away, the clanking of his armour dogging his footsteps until they fade.

Once they have, she shuffles to a nearby shelf, pretending to browse the books and muttering, "I shouldn't have interrupted."

Her templar looks at her, his arms crossed, his slumped posture most definitely not Chantry-approved. It's... amused. "I think you just saved me from a sermon, actually," is his dry reply.

"Why was he - ?" she begins, but he cuts her off with a shake of his helm.

"It isn't worth dwelling on." A ring of the fourth bell, and he lets out a loud, frustrated sigh. _"Andraste's..."_

She straightens, looking over her shoulder as if to check his superior isn't watching them, and looks worriedly into his helm. "I doubt I improved his mood. I'm sorry for distracting you."

He shakes his head, waves a gauntleted hand to dismiss her apology. "I doubt the Maker's _return_ could improve Greagoir's mood."

As she begins to hurry away to Primal tuition, she almost misses his low murmur, and she doubts she was meant to hear it.

"Besides, there are _far_ less pleasant distractions than you."


	6. Parchment

For a moment, it almost sounded like... No. He's a templar, and templars don't... _flirt_. Or even _think_ of mages that way. As dangerous, yes; as weapons, yes. _That way?_ No.

But then, they don't read dirty limericks, either, or make jokes about the Knight-Commander, or tell her about sunsets. Do they?

She pretends not to hear him, steps not even pausing; when she reaches the corridor, she shakes her head at her own stupidity, her mind beginning to clear as she steps into the part of the tower Torrin has claimed as his own. She ignores the fluttering sensation in her stomach, like butterflies are caged within her. She tries to remember what a butterfly looks like, recalling the illustration, the beautiful, flowing lines on its wings...

She is a mage. He is a templar. So why can she only describe herself as feeling, just for a half-second... hopeful?

That night, she wonders again what his smile looks like, about kind hazel eyes and whether his hands would be warm, and she dreams of the Oak.

When she wakes up, she can't remember the details of the dream - only a hand on hers and a gentle, wry voice in her ear.

* * *

The next day, it is as though nothing has happened; he fidgets, tugging at his gauntlets - a nervous habit of his, she's noticed - and greets her with a, "Back again, huh? Wow. I didn't think I was that interesting."

She smiles at him, sweet, wide and genuine. "Well, I think you're _very_ interesting - certainly enough for me, anyway."

She hears something that sounds like a cough inside his helm, and there's a slightly surprised pause before he says, "Nice to know I'm appreciated." She can hear his grin. "I suppose I should return the compliment, then." And she hears something in his voice, an unfamiliar, double-edged tone that she has only heard once before. _There are_ far _less pleasant distractions than you._

"I'm... _interesting_ , am I?" she teases quietly, prodding further, even knowing that the man in front of her can smite her at will, that there are _rules_ and _boundaries..._

She hears the change in the air, like he's stepping back - not physically, but mentally. Like he's let something slip that he wasn't supposed to. "If compliments mean I don't have a fireball thrown at my head in the very near future, then yes." He's trying to laugh it off, and she's disappointed. "You know, there'll be a Harrowing soon. It's going round our floor."

Her interest is piqued, as evasive as the announcement is. "Whose?"

"I know Cullen's been chosen for the blow." The helm clatters as he shakes his head, and mutters, "Poor sod... As for the mage? Couldn't tell you if I knew. I just thought you should keep an ear to the ground, that's all."

She thanks him for the information she knows she shouldn't have, and he replies, "Don't mention it. No, really, _don't._ "

She smiles, nodding, but walks to Creation with a worried heart.

* * *

The following day, she's walking through the second floor when she's stopped by a toneless, horribly familiar voice.

"The First Enchanter wishes to see you."

She turns to look at Jowan, hoping, once again, to see the hint of a spark - but his eyes are empty, devoid of anything even resembling emotion. She sighs heavily and nods, at once curious and apprehensive.

* * *

The First Enchanter turns as she enters his office; he smiles at her, but his eyes are shuttered, wary. "Apprentice," he says warmly. "I see you have received my summons." He beckons to her, turning to his desk, and when he faces her, it's with a small roll of parchment. "You must hand this to the Knight-Commander. He will be in his quarters."

She frowns. "I thought the templar floor was off-limits to mages."

He smiles guardedly again. "You are... an exception."

She frowns, the word slipping from her mouth before she can remember formality and not to question. "Why?"

"You are my most trusted apprentice, and the message is important. It is for _his eyes only_." He emphasises the words with a shrewd look into her eyes, as if he can see the thoughts ticking away in her head.

"But - "

"You must go, apprentice," he says firmly, and she nods, leaving reluctantly and with the thought that she hasn't really received much of an explanation at all.

Of course, the moment she is through the door, her curiosity gets the better of her. She looks cautiously around the stretch of corridor, but only the occasional mage is passing by. She clasps the parchment to begin to unroll it, to see the message that isn't for her eyes. When she does, a sharp electric shock runs from the tips of her fingers to her wrist, the parchment seeming to furl even more tightly, and she nearly drops it. Gritting her teeth, she shakes her head, figuring that the message must be important.

And resolves to break the guard spell around it as soon as possible.

* * *

The templar guarding the steps to the third floor moves as if to cut off her path when she approaches the stairs. "Mage - "

She holds up the parchment. "Orders from the First Enchanter, ser."

There is a pause, and she hears a sigh in the helm as he crosses his arms, nodding, and steps to the side. "You may pass."

When she opens the door and passes through, she finds herself in a large, high-ceilinged hall, very like the ones on the other floors; a few men, clad in simple tunics and trousers, some talking animatedly to each other, pass through it. She hasn't seen them before. Where are their robes?

And then she realises, remembering where she is, and her mouth falls open slightly. These are _templars, unarmoured._ No _wonder_ the mages aren't allowed up here.

She's distracted for a moment, glancing around at faces and trying to match them to eyes only occasionally seen through slits, but at some of the hostile looks her stares receive, she looks back to the parchment, hesitantly touching different parts of it; the moment her fingers even come close to where it's rolled, shocks course down her arm again, and she grits her teeth, her determination only renewed, trying to work out the trigger for the spell, eyes not leaving it.

Which is how she collides with what could be a wall, except for the fact that the wall makes a small, winded sound and catches her by the shoulders before she can fall inelegantly backwards, saying, "I... _Oh._ "

She recognises his voice first, and she stares at the ungauntleted hand on her shoulder, unable to believe it. Then, slowly and nervously, she looks up.


	7. Alistair

It falls out of her open mouth before she can stop it, and it's only afterwards that she realises she's forgotten the Ser. _"Alistair?"_

He _is_ young, probably only as old as Ser Cullen - barely older than herself, if at all. He looks down at her, hands still on her shoulders, those hazel eyes as wide as her own, and...

The Chantry wanted to lock away _this_ face?

She's staring, she realises just a moment too late. Square jaw and strong nose; long lashes, dark blond hair and a little unshaven scruff; a mouth just _made_ for a wry smile...

He isn't what she's dreamed of, what she's wondered about for nights on end. He's _better_.

Speech deserts her as she drinks him in, and he, too, seems to struggle for words until he manages, "What are you... what are you doing here? I thought it was off-limits."

She looks round, a flutter of panic in her stomach as she realises that she's dropped the parchment, and she bends to look for it, finding it by his feet. She grasps it, finally - it's next to one of his boots; simple, leather, and, as she looks up, it finally sinks in that he isn't in armour. He's broad even without it, strength obvious in every inch of him, and it could almost be imposing except for the fact that he's looking at her with surprise and more than a little fear.

"I had a job... from Irving..." she explains, straightening and waving the parchment.

He relaxes slightly, but he's still looking at her as if Andraste herself has appeared before him and told him to re-read his scripture. "But you're... here... and I'm..." He looks down at himself, and it finally seems to dawn on him. He recovers after a moment, and offers her a smile - it's wide, relieved, rather astonished. It looks good on him, and she instinctively answers the sight of it with a grin of her own. His eyes move to take her in, still as if he can't believe she's there. He says softly, almost in wonder, "Hello."

"Hello," she replies, equally quietly, the two of them still, gaze not straying from each other.

He starts to say something, and her mouth goes dry...

"Do you need an escort?" he asks.

She should probably be disappointed, but the thought of spending more time with this new, unarmoured man before her is... appealing. She could so easily never have seen this, and now she has, she wants to savour it. Besides, she _is_ lost - it's not as if she's visited this floor often. She nods, smiles at him. "That would be nice. I have no _idea_ where Greagoir's quarters are."

"Ah, right." He steps to her side, and she's keenly aware of his closeness, of his warmth. He points down a branching corridor. "We ought to be making our way down here, then." She walks forward with him, and as they reach the corridor, she feels him raise his hand to her back to guide her; the touch is gentle, self-conscious, and his hand _is_ warm, after all. It's only as she sees some of the glares that follow them that she realises that the touch is also to protect her, to show she's with him. He's worried about her, and it makes her unconsciously lean into his touch. He looks down at her in surprise, their eyes meeting, but then returns his gaze to the corridor, nodding to the occasional passer-by.

They reach a large, elaborately carved door, and he withdraws his hand - she mourns the loss - as he steps back. "Here we are." He reaches for the handle, gives her another smile, then it's gone as he opens the door, follows her through it. His face is impassive as he says, "Commander? An apprentice has a message for you."

Greagoir looks up from paperwork and nods. "Thank you, Alistair. That will be all."

He returns the nod, catches her eye for a too-brief moment, and then is gone; she approaches the desk carefully, proffering the parchment. When Greagoir touches it, there is a spark and hiss, the ward gone. He opens it easily, eyes taking in the text, then her. "Good. My thanks, apprentice." He lays it beside him on the desk, placing a paperweight upon it, and dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

She catches a glimpse of Irving's neat lettering as she leaves, and it sparks a cold, icy dread in the pit of her stomach.

_This apprentice is ready for the Harrowing._

The dread stays with her as she steps carefully out of Greagoir's office, careful not to show her terror, a slight shake in her hands the only thing that could give her away.

The one she wants to talk to, to run to, is with the other templars, off-guard; she knows already from his protective touch that an unsupervised mage running around the templar floor with no reason to hand isn't a good idea. Besides, she remembers the other templars' attitudes, and she suddenly has an image of him turning against her, pretending not to know the stray mage, in front of his fellows. She thinks it's more than she can bear, and so she trudges slowly up the corridor, back to the stairs. She takes one last glance over her shoulder, knowing she's unlikely to see this hall again, and then gently closes the door, nodding to the templar guarding this side of it.

* * *

She remembers Jowan's worry, Keris's eagerness. She remembers the tales of those who never came back from the chamber, or those who came back with blank eyes and emotionless voices.

Joseph finds her a few hours later, in the darkness, sitting on her bunk and staring into space. The bed creaks as he sits next to her, looks at her sympathetically. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She looks at him for a long moment, carefully keeping her composure; then she sees the concern in his eyes, and she reaches for him instinctively. He holds her tightly, rocking her back and forth like a small child, and it's the first embrace like this she remembers ever having. She does not cry. Instead, she tells him the story slowly, haltingly, trying to regain control of her breathing.

Of course, she only knows all this from Irving's parchment. She neglects to mention that she has a kind-eyed templar on her side, one who told her his name. She knows what Joseph thinks of templars, even the good ones.

It takes a long time for her to be able to confess it, even in his arms. "I'm scared. I'm so scared."

Joseph kisses her forehead, and she's surprised at the gesture. Then he bends to unlace and slip off her boots, pushing her legs up onto the bed. "Come on." She allows it, and he shifts onto it with her, tucking her head into the crook of his arm.

* * *

She wakes to the sound of the first bell, on top of the covers, fully clothed. She hears a yawn, and realises that Joseph is sitting next to her, idly flipping through a book. He meets her eye with a smile. "Morning, sunshine." It fades, his face suddenly serious, and he asks her, "Feeling better?"

She's terrified and on edge, her thoughts only focused on the Harrowing ahead... but she finds that she _is_ better, just a little.

* * *

When she finally steals a moment to visit the library, she finds that she's nervous, for once not knowing what to ask, what to say.

 _Clank_. The familiarity of the sound makes her swallow her nerves, and soon she's standing before the tall, armoured figure, looking straight into his eyes underneath the helm, remembering the planes of his face and his smile.

He looks down at her, and after a moment, she hears him clear his throat. A nervous laugh _very_ unbefitting of a templar, and then he asks quietly, "Not too disappointed, I hope?"

"Disappointed?" She stares at him, surprised at the question, and something compels her to say it, even with the way he hastily stepped back last time she suggested even a hint of flirtation. Her gaze shifts to the floor, and she's suddenly very aware of the _man_ under the helm, her cheeks colouring. She smiles, small and shy, the panic in her chest lessening a little. "Have you checked a looking-glass recently?"

A pause. "I... I'll take that as a compliment, I think," he says, his voice incredulous.

But that's not why she's here, and she eventually breaks the silence with, "It's me."

"What?" he asks, understandably puzzled.

"The Harrowing you warned me of. It's me. It was on the parchment."

He freezes. "Maker... I had no idea, I swear."

"I... I know. I believe you, ser." Her voice is resigned.

He shakes his head, the helm clanking, and says in a low voice, " _No_. That wasn't what you called me last time we met."

Her tongue trips over the name - too informal, too human, and definitely not allowed. "Al - Alistair," she tries, haltingly.

He nods, his voice firm, all hint of nervousness or joviality gone. "Better. Now, look at me." He breathes out, leaning slightly to look her in the eye - his are wide and earnest beneath the helm, and his voice is soft. "It's going to be fine. I promise."

They both know he can't promise that. But in that moment, she realises that he wants with all his heart to.


	8. Awakening

She supposes she should be surprised that night, when she's woken by heavy gauntlets ripping away the covers, ordering her to be quiet. Instead, she complies, silently and quickly, and allows them to lead her to the chamber. As she's grabbed by the arms, she hears one of them say quietly, but in a tone that brooks no argument, "Gently." It's Ser Cullen. The grips loosen, and she looks at him and nods her thanks.

He looks at her, eyes wide and worried, and says nothing; his gaze drops to the floor, and she's sure she sees a blush, but she dismisses it, telling herself it must be her imagination.

* * *

Greagoir drones once more through the cardinal rules of magic - the ones she already knows, that have been drilled into her since she arrived here, that tell her how much of a _danger_ she is to them all, an abomination waiting to happen.

She only half-listens, staring as she is at the bowl of glowing blue lyrium, wondering how such a small font can be so intimidating. Irving gestures her forward, and she complies, unable to do anything else, raising a trembling hand to the mixture.

A flash, and the world goes dark.

* * *

She wakes to a familiar smell of grass on the wind, the feel of it between her fingers and underneath her, rough bark at her back. She opens her eyes slowly, cautiously, and feels something at her fingertips. She looks down to see several small health poultices arranged next to her, and tucks them into her belt, knowing they may be useful later.

She looks up, and sees her Oak. Perfect, to every last detail, the leaves spreading out above her, protective and shading, and suddenly she wants to cry at the sheer feeling of being _home_.

A stream runs, burbling gently, beside the tree, and she follows its progress a few feet with her eyes, seeing a couple sat next to it. They're grey-haired, looking out into the distance. She stands, walking slowly to them, already half-knowing who they are.

When the man turns round, smiling with _her_ mouth, her eyes, she is certain. She speeds up, nearly running to them, and collapses next to them on the grass, sitting up with a gasp. Her parents watch the stream peacefully, but she only has eyes for them, the _newness_ of them...

But they've always been here. _She's_ always been here. This is _home_. Her eyes turn back to the stream.

She hears sounds from beside her, and she turns to see her templar - what's a _templar?_ Why are her thoughts so _hazy?_ \- sit down beside her, offer her a familiar grin, running his fingers through blond hair. "Beautiful here, isn't it?" he sighs, lacing his fingers through hers.

Yes. Beautiful

and

perfect

and

_too perfect..._

She wrenches her hand away, standing, her face twisted in anger and pain that they've even touched _this_ , the dream she's held close to her chest since she was a frightened, wild-eyed child, the one place no-one could reach. Except the demon, it seems.

And as the illusion begins to collapse around her, magic beginning to crackle in her blood and from her hands, the words ring in her head.

_It's going to be fine. I promise._

And she wants with all her heart to believe him.

* * *

She wakes slowly and blearily, to the sound of her name. Joseph is calling her, telling her to wake up, an edge of desperation in his voice.

She manages to open her eyes, finding herself in the dormitory - her friend is bent over her, obviously only one step away from shaking her. As her lashes flutter, she sees him breathe out and straighten. He smiles brightly at her. "You did it. Andraste's sword, you actually _did_ it."

She sits up slowly and uncertainly, raising a hand to her aching head - the aftermath of a sleep spell, she thinks, from the tingling still at her temples - and can only bring herself to answer, "It looks like it."

"Well, you're a Circle mage now," he tells her, curtsying exaggeratedly, "and I am but a lowly apprentice."

She throws a pillow at him, flinging her legs over the side of the bed and looking around the dormitory with a sigh: she takes in the whispering apprentices that keep darting glances at her, the templar posted at the door checking his gauntlets, her grinning friend.

"What'd they make you do?" he asks, fidgeting, looking almost like an excited child.

"There was..." It's all a little hazy, the memories Fade-tinged and uncertain. _Beautiful here, isn't it?_ haunts her, and she screws her eyes up tightly, refusing to let the rest of the memory in. "A desire demon," she tells him eventually, knowing full well that she isn't allowed to pass on the secrets of the Harrowing but unable to care, "and then pride. It tricked me into believing I'd defeated the test..." She shakes her head.

Joseph sits down next to her, the bed creaking with the added weight, and asks gently, "What did the desire demon offer you?"

Temptation's name springs instantly, easily, to her tongue, but she swallows it down, knowing she won't be able to explain who _Alistair_ is, and settles for, "My parents. A home."

He exhales softly, looking at his hands in his lap, and then says, "Irving will want to see you. I better alert him to the fact you're up."

He stands, and they exchange weak smiles, then he's out into the corridor; the giggling apprentices follow him, obviously eager for news. She gets to her feet and begins to follow, but stops next to the door with a sigh, knowing well by now the sound of a templar trying very hard to keep still. "How long have you been there?"

He clears his throat and offers, "A few hours, I think, from the bells. The watch should've been Carroll's, but I bribed him with, er... one of the Senior Enchanter's special library."

She gazes at him for a moment, open-mouthed. "How did you - ?"

The helm clanks as he looks at his feet. "She left one of them in the library, the... um..." His voice drops abruptly in volume, almost to a mumble. " _The Rose of Orlais._ I took a look, just out of curiosity - _please_ stop looking at me like that, I thought it was about horticulture." He looks up, meets her eye through the helm, and she can _hear_ the red tinge to his cheeks as he finishes shortly, "It wasn't."

There's a moment of stunned silence. Then she splutters, loudly and with an utter lack of the dignity befitting a Circle mage, into laughter - proper, doubled-over, thigh-slapping laughter, the first she's had since before the Harrowing, and suddenly she feels a little reckless. "Alistair," she begins, still a little breathless, and hears his sudden inhale at the use of his name, "could you..." She doesn't know how to phrase it, and, looking round nervously once more, slowly taps the side of her head in a wordless request.

She sees him freeze as he understands her, the nervous scrapes and creaks of a man's thousand little movements halting abruptly into a surprised silence. "You know, someone might..." He inclines his head at the door.

Walk in? Only an apprentice, and they think nothing of Cullen going helmless... She says as much, and he shakes his head. "But that's rank."

"Just once. And a mage wouldn't know..." She looks at her hands, knowing this request is going far beyond appropriate, that this is most certainly _not allowed._

There is an uncertain pause. It's followed by a scrape, a series of movements that must be rendered even more awkward by gauntlets, and then he's smiling at her, all bright eyes and ruffled hair and the hint of a blush, his helm still in his hands. 

The picture is complete, finally - the nervous, wry templar who fidgets in libraries, the gentle, smiling man in woven wool with his hesitant touches... they are one and the same. She thought she knew this, but it has never quite sunk in, been so _true_ , until now, and the suddenness of the realisation robs her of breath.

He looks at her, seeming aware of her surprise, and fills the silence with, "Greagoir'll have my head for this, I hope you know that." He nods at her in a "you'll see" sort of way. "'It was all the pretty one's fault, she made me do it...'" He tucks the helm under his arm, the movement slowed by the heavy plate.

Pretty? It's more than she's got from him so far, and it warms her from the inside.

He breathes out in a huff of exhaustion, fingers to his forehead as if he's seeking relief from a headache, and the humour suddenly fades from his face. "I thought I... I thought we'd lost you, for a while. You didn't seem to be fighting back, and I thought..."

She notices the slip of the tongue, the not-quite-cracking of his voice, and when his eyes at last find hers, the look in them confirms every suspicion she's had since his first, accidental comment. "Didn't Carroll think your interest in being here was a little... untoward?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head. "Everyone wants to get a look at the Tower's fastest-Harrowed mage, Irving's star student. It's not like I was the first to ask, I just thought to bring something. No, if they'd thought something like that, it would've been _me_ striking the blow..." The last words are so bitter they're almost a snarl, and he laughs darkly, looking away from her.

"What?" she asks sharply, and at his blank look elaborates, "Why would it have been you striking the blow?" She frowns.

The caught-out look on his face only tells her that this is important, that she needs to know. "I..."

"Why was _Cullen_ chosen?"

There's a silence, and when he finally looks at her, his face is incredulous. "You don't know. You genuinely don't know." His laugh this time is even darker, even more humourless, and he's shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, that's just..." His eyes meet hers, and hold them, his voice rough and curling bleakly round the words. "They don't say it, but they choose them as an example. To show us to sever any... _emotional attachments_ to the mages that the Chantry might not approve of. Just in case, you understand."

"Emotional attachments..." she echoes, the pieces beginning to fit together but not quite there...

"A templar in love with a mage?" His huff of laughter is nervous, too loud and too sudden. "Oh, the horror!"

"In... love...?" she repeats.

The stammering...

... and the blushing...

... and the nervous little half-smiles...

" _Oh_." But templars don't love _mages_. Do they?

"Yes," he says, quietly, all the anger seeming to have fled from him, and he suddenly seems awfully tired. " _Oh_. He was a wreck before the Harrowing. Didn't let Greagoir see it, of course, but... quite how you could be so oblivious to him, to... to..." He cuts himself off, swallowing, his mouth saying nothing and his eyes shouting _me, to me._

"I was distracted," she offers at last. "There was... someone else..."

He frowns, still clearly not understanding, but there's hurt in his eyes, a flash he's just a little too late to veil. "A - a mage, you mean?"

Templars don't love mages. _Mages_ don't love _templars_ , either, and they certainly don't pull them down and kiss them, in a dormitory where they could be found at any moment, making them drop their helm with a loud clank.

But suddenly, she is.


	9. Like Us

She has wondered about this many times, but her imagination has never got it quite _right._

The armour is solid, unyielding under her hands; she doesn't care. She hears him gasp against her lips, the low sound of a man drowning, and then he's responding in kind, his mouth opening to hers, always with the need for _more_. It's a moment without Chantries and without rules; he murmurs something against her lips, the words coming in a frightened rush, and it takes her a moment to decipher them.

_I thought I'd lost you._

And then suddenly he's pushing her back, too surprised to be gentle, and the panic is plain on his face. "We... can't..." he says, still breathless, his face shocked and his eyes pleading. Not _I don't want to_ , she notices, as he backs away. "I'm... I'm a _templar..._ "

Whatever response he's expecting, it probably isn't her blunt, "And?"

"And I'm a _templar_ , and you're... you're a _mage_ ," he reiterates, as if this is something set in stone and immoveable - birds fly; fish swim; templars don't kiss mages. He shakes his head, as if denying it enough will mean it didn't happen.

"Alistair - " she tries, a last attempt to get through to him, a mark of what connects them.

He looks away from her, seeming ashamed. "I'm sorry," he says, at last. "I was weak. I shouldn't have..." He crouches to pick up the helm, putting it back on with fumbling hands, muttering something under his breath that sounds like a never-ending stream of blasphemy - she catches the odd phrase, things like _oh Maker, Andraste, what have I done?_ And then he flees, stepping out into the corridor.

"I need you to take my watch," she hears him tell a templar outside, his voice still unsteady and too fast, and she knows that the other guard must be wondering what has unsettled him so. "Illness. I'll explain to the Knight-Commander."

She steps backwards, slumping onto her bed when it butts the back of her knees. She suspected the reason they gave the killing blow to the younger recruits, had thought it was to prevent friendships, but _love?_ And Alistair... She runs a finger over her lips, lost in thought, and her mouth twists. She thought he was different, and yet...

_I thought I'd lost you._

The words and the memory of his ragged voice send something low flickering in her stomach. He had responded, just for a moment; just for long enough to know she hadn't been imagining things, that his feelings were real.

When Joseph enters the room she's still sitting there, staring at her knees, her breath uneven and her cheeks bright with the remains of a blush. Shame and satisfaction war for dominance. She _kissed_ a _templar_.

Joseph takes in the state of her, raising his eyebrows. "I was going to tell you that Irving needs to see you, but..." He asks with a wide, slightly lecherous grin, "Alright, who is he?"

She stands and shakes her head, her reply quiet, not looking at him. "No-one. No-one important at all."

* * *

_Her hand on the back of his neck, running through his hair_ (he feels himself redden, even at just a remembered touch), _her lips, so impossibly soft_ (and why did the Maker create her a mage that he can't kiss with lips like _those?_ Some kind of sick sense of humour, it must be), _and it feels so good, so_ right, _so impossibly wrong..._

He runs a trembling hand through his hair, trying to sweep the memories away, praying he isn't blushing as the healer checks him over.

He is _not_ like Cullen, he is _not_ like Cullen...

But he _is_ , isn't he? Has been since before the Harrowing; maybe even since that first time she turned round and looked at him, and he felt the irrational urge to laugh or to run away very fast, both at once, like she was seeing through the plate and his forced templar status and looking at _him..._

All he can think about is his mage, the one who doesn't look at him like a frightened rabbit or like he's something under her magical boot, who used his name, who beat the Harrowing in record time...

And he's so, _so_ proud of her, even though he _shouldn't_ be and he can't _have_ her...

The healer pokes him sharply, and he has a feeling that it's more to stop him moping than for any diagnostic reason; he hisses in surprise, and she looks at him, eyes stern. "Well, I see nothing wrong with you. You know the penalties for shirking your duties. But if you must, off to the dormitory with you."

"Thank you, Enchanter...?" He tries for a smile, not out of any real feeling but in a vague attempt to be polite.

He asks, every single time. He sees them as _people_ , that's the problem, that's what got him into this mess in the _first_ place...

"Leorah," she answers. "And, Senior. It's Senior Enchanter." A twitch at the corner of her mouth, what could with work conceivably be a smile.

He nods, self-correcting, "Thank you, Senior Enchanter." Then he climbs down from the stone table, walking from the room with his head bowed and his cheeks burning.

He's failed in his duty as a templar ( _again_ ), but this time it's so much worse, and it won't be the kitchens or the library, it'll be _Aeonar_. It must show on his face, what he's done, surely, must be written clearly in his eyes (which is why he can't look up, in case they see it), and any moment someone's going to pull him aside, _do something_ , and where's all the _lightning_ and righteous _smiting_ the sisters told him about?

He jumps as he abruptly collides with six-foot-or-so of concerned eyes, heavy plate and Denerim-accented piety.

"Alistair?" Cullen asks worriedly.

And he doesn't know whether it's his own Maker-damned _stupidity_ or what he knows about the man (what _she_ knows now, too) that makes him ask, throat dry and teeth gritted, "Have you ever... _looked_ at a a mage?" _Never mind kissed them,_ his mind supplies unhelpfully.

The flash of fear behind the other man's eyes tells him he knows exactly what sort of _looking_ he's talking about, and he places a hand on his shoulder. "Not here. Meet me in the Chantry room."

* * *

Later, sitting on one of the pews of the templars' worship room, he taps a foot against the stone floor; he's agitated, unable to keep still, his gaze darting to the candles, to the books of the Chant and its history dotted around him.

This place makes him uncomfortable, and he tries to avoid it as much as possible - too many memories of endless, knee-numbing prayers, of shouting hags who thought they could beat the humour out of him. It's quiet, far too quiet, and for a fleeting moment he has the urge to scream the place down, just like the old days, see what happens - if just to break the silence. It passes, though, and when Cullen walks in, dressed in simple clothes similar to his own, the other templar seems remarkably comfortable here, as if it's a second home.

Cullen takes a seat beside him; he takes a last look around the empty room, and then looks at him, eyes wide and worried. He swallows, his eyes now steady on the candles in front of them. "They're... very like us, in some ways."

_She wants to see a sunset._

"And some of them... It's easy enough to look," Cullen continues, glancing back at him, brows creased in a frown, cheeks beginning to redden, "but... we _can't_ , Alistair. You know that. We can _only_ look. You have to stay strong."

_You have to stay strong._ But _she_ didn't just look, did she? And now he's not sure he can either, and he's _weak,_ he's already told her that...

And he nods, unable to look the other templar in the eye. "I was only asking hypothetically." At Cullen's raised, disbelieving brow, he adds, "I will. I can." He breathes out in a huff, steeling himself. "I _can."_


	10. Mage

It's not so easy when he's pacing the corridors of the templar floor that night, unable to sleep, and he can't _tell_ her but she's all he can _think_ about and he feels like the words are fighting all the time to get out and if he doesn't let them then his _head_ 'll explode...

Her lips - the first he's ever touched with his own - tasted like magic and honey.

When he finally slumps into bed, too exhausted to move anymore, it's close to dawn, only a matter of hours before morning prayers.

* * *

She trudges into the dormitory, the mustard-yellow robes of a full-fledged mage that she doesn't want to wear bundled in her hands.

Tomorrow, her own quarters, and loneliness.

She thinks she hears a noise, a muffled _thud_ , but dismisses it as her imagination, and opens her armoire to shove the mage robes to the bottom of it.

Out fall Joseph and another mage, locked at the lips and panting. Wait, she recognises that ponytail...

 _"Anders?"_ she says, slightly disbelievingly.

The two of them look at her guiltily, Joseph hastily extracting his hand from under the other mage's robes and saying, perfectly casually, as though they're standing in the corridor together, "Friends share, right?"

"Right..." she says, uncertainly.

"Therefore, your closet is my closet. Yes?"

" _No_ ," she corrects him firmly, as he gets to his feet, cheeks red and hair everywhere, grabbing Anders and hauling him up too. "Find your own for... _that_." She grimaces, vaguely waving her hand, and her friend grins at her.

"Spoilsport," he says, hands busy adjusting his robes, and Anders leans to murmur something in his ear with a grin worthy of a desire demon. He raises his eyebrows with a low chuckle - "Oh, _yes_ " - and then lets himself be dragged out of the dormitory, with a raised hand as a goodbye and, "Must dash."

She shakes her head as she watches, looking back to the closet. That's the thing - it _isn't_ her closet anymore, is it? In the morning, some other apprentice will be taking her place.

Strangely, out of everything, a stupid little thing like that is what makes her lean against the wall and exhale shakily, the burn of a kiss ended too soon once again spreading along her lips.

* * *

Joseph's back in time to help her carry her things to her quarters the next day, and he looks around appraisingly, his attention focused particularly on the large, comfortable bed. "Cushy," he observes, after a while.

She wags a finger at him. "Don't even _think_ about it."

He puts the sack he's carrying down next to the bed, raises his hand. "Wasn't," he lies, his face saying otherwise. After a moment, he grows a little more sincere, and pulls her into a hug with a warm, "Congratulations, Enchanter."

She smiles, even through the hollow feeling in her chest.

* * *

Her feet are bringing her to the library before she's even really aware of what's happening, and while part of her wants to turn and walk away, avoid him as long as she can, another, stronger part needs to hear him, needs to make sure that this is real, after all.

The sound draws her attention, like it always has. _Clank._ She walks towards it, finds herself once more next to the Primal shelf.

She hears a noise next to her, and it takes her a moment to register that he's stepped away from her. She looks up at him, the hurt plain in her eyes, and asks softly, only loudly enough for him to hear, "Are you really so afraid of me, now that I've stopped running away from you?"

She hears him swallow, the sound loud and nervous, and there's a creak as his hand curls and uncurls inside his gauntlet at his side. His breathing, too, is unsteady, but he says nothing.

It's no more than a breath, low and pleading, for him only. "Alistair... _look_ at me." He barely moves, but the helm rises, as if he's looking up. To pray, perhaps. "Please. It's _me._ "

He exhales, the sound heavy and trembling, and finally the helm turns. His voice is strained. "I... Leave me alone." He must know the effect the last word will have on her, for it takes him a second or two to force it from his lips, and it escapes with a laboured huff of air. " _Mage._ "

She looks at him in shock, unable to believe that he, of all people, has said it to her.

_His open mouth on hers, her desperate hands and his terrified words..._

She thinks her eyes might be watering (probably, from the sting behind them), but she makes no effort to hide it if they are, her mouth staying in a strong and stubborn line. If that's the way it's going to be... "Yes," she replies, her mouth twisted into a sneer, releasing every shred of spite she has into the final word, " _Ser."_

And she walks away from him, from the library, on shaking legs, hurt in her eyes.


	11. The Blackest Nights

The words blur into each other, a hazy, distant drone, and she can't be bothered to try and make sense of it.

He _knows_ her name. And it's not _mage_. Just remembering him saying it sends more pain through her chest.

She looks up, frowning, when Joseph stops and nudges her again. " _Someone's_ distracted today," he mutters, and she looks away from him, feeling colour come to her cheeks. "So," he says, trying for brightness, "your news or mine?"

"Yours," she mutters, slightly reluctantly.

"Well, Blondie's quite the firecracker..." he begins, and the words begin to blur into one another once again as he recounts the details of his latest conquest in a self-satisfied drawl.

Joseph's voice isn't the one echoing in her head.

* * *

"Oh, he's always whining about _something_ ," she hears the usual templar say, his voice dismissive, as she walks past the large, heavy door.

"That's the thing," Bran replies uneasily. "He _isn't_. He's barely talked for the past two days." A _clank_ of the helm as he shakes his head.

She inhales sharply, thinking she knows exactly who they're talking about, and hurries onwards, her chest tight, the image of him distressed and silent in her head. It hurts.

* * *

It's in his head like a chant, like _the_ Chant, hammered into it and somehow now impossible to get out. Maybe it's stuck there for good, he thinks grimly, unsure whether that's a curse or a blessing. Except it's only a word, not what seem like hundreds of verses that lose their poetry once you've heard them for the umpteenth time, and rather than the drone of the Revered Mother, it's a frightened, hopeful breath.

_Alistair..._

He screws his eyes shut, trying not to remember her face when he called her _mage_ , the telltale shine to her eyes and the look of sheer betrayed _hurt_ she directed at him, and _Maker_ , he's a fool...

He _has_ to stay strong.

But no-one said doing his duty, being a good little templar, would _hurt_ so much.

* * *

Joseph doesn't understand her hasty, too-loud refusal when he mentions going to the library.

"But you _love_ it in there," he protests, and perhaps the words were going to going to be teasing, but any attempt at humour dies at the look on her face.

"I was studying. For the Harrowing," she responds curtly, and he looks at her cynically. "I'm Harrowed. I have no need of it."

"Well, _I_ do," he replies. "Books for Sweeney." He glances at a piece of parchment, titles scribbled upon it in Sweeney's distinctive spidery scrawl, his brow creasing as he tries to make sense of it. "You know how it is."

She does. Memories of scrubbing that damned floor for returning empty-handed come to her, and she grimaces involuntarily, nodding. "Quite why he thinks he can treat us like five-year-olds..."

"Or free labour," he chips in sourly.

She swallows, steeling herself, and they trudge into the library with the parchment held between them. She refuses to look up from it, pretends not to notice the clanks of armour that seem far too close for comfort.

Joseph must have seen something in her face, because he frowns at her, his expression worried. "Are you - ?"

She shakes her head, smiling shakily, and lies, "I'm fine, honestly. The books?"

* * *

Staring at the ceiling, sleepless and with the phantom tingle of her kiss on his lips, he curses under his breath, his legs itching to _move_ , to _solve_ this.

_Guide me through the blackest nights, steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked..._

But she's _not_ wicked, is she? She's just sweet, and frightened, and wants to learn how to fish...

Oh, _sod_ it, he's never been a very good templar anyway.

He swings his legs out of bed and grabs a shirt, pulling it over his head and shoving on a pair of boots over the rough-spun trousers he should be sleeping in - _if_ he'd done his duty, _if_ he had nothing to keep him awake at night, _if_ he didn't have questions about rain and soft lips going round and round his head...

He looks over his shoulder but no-one stirs, and thank all that's holy for _that_. He creeps into the corridor, grabs a piece of vellum and a bottle of ink from the first shelf he can find and trudges to the dining hall. A few templars, still up and seated at the long tables, give him weary smiles; he returns them, knowing he must look like something a mabari's dragged in at this hour.

He spends a few minutes not knowing what to write - he'd just love to be witty and charming and irresistible and _sorry_ enough for her, but things never work out that way except in _The Rose of Orlais,_ do they?

When he decides, the quill shakes in his hand as he scratches out the message, and he struggles to keep it neat. Finished, he reads over it, exhaling in trepidation, and corks the ink bottle, shoving it back onto the shelf as he walks back to the barracks. He looks around warily, waiting for the ink to dry, and then slides the book out from underneath his bed, slipping the note between the pages, restoring it back to its place (and he can't believe he's doing this, and this is either the most foolish or the bravest thing he's ever done, or maybe both) and only taking his boots off before he settles on the mattress, his breathing still rough.

It has to be _soon_ , before his courage deserts him, or he manages to let it slip somehow, because he can never keep his big mouth _shut_ , can he? That's how he met her in the first place, after all. He almost laughs to himself at the thought, but instead finds his eyes heavy, the Fade - for the first time in too many hours - reaching to greet him.


	12. Sixth Bell

It takes a week before Joseph manages to drag her back to the library, her muttered protests and hasty excuses only serving to increase his curiosity - no matter how much she tries to... gently _dissuade_ him, to focus his attention elsewhere, he reiterates that he simply _has_ to return the books for Sweeney, his eyes bright and questioning. Every time she suggests that he go on his own, he responds that the place is simply _intolerably_ boring all by himself.

It's no excuse, and _Maker_ , subtlety has never been the man's strong point, but he wrangles her into submission eventually.

She sighs as she steps into the large room, the dusty, comforting smell of books greeting her, and breathes in, keeping her eyes carefully away from the Primal section that she knows all too well is just around a corner, praying for her face not to colour.

She walks to the non-magical section and slides out _Miles's Botanie_ , having mentally bookmarked the section about thistles, and is making her way back to Joseph at the door when she hears armour behind her.

She sucks in a breath and keeps walking, pretending to be oblivious; the clanking grows with his pace, until she has a familiar templar beside her, holding out a small, battered tome she's never seen before.

"You dropped this," he says, and hearing his voice again shocks her out of her stupor. She looks up into his helm, frowning, knowing she's done no such thing, and wonders whether to throw it back in his face. But there has to be a _reason_ for this...

She takes it gently from him, still none the wiser. "Thank you, ser." She wonders whether she imagines his harsh intake of breath at the word, but then she's striding towards Joseph, smiling at him tightly.

"What was that about?" he asks, glancing at the templar over her shoulder, and his voice is far too suspicious for her liking.

She waves the book. "I dropped this." Then she tucks it under her arm before he can ask any questions, the two of them walking to the dining hall. She only stops when she hears his low statement from behind her.

"I got my piece of parchment from Irving."

She stares at him over her shoulder, searching for words, until he shakes his head. "I'm not scared. I know enough not to be fooled by a demon. If I'm going to be Harrowed, I'm going to do it in style." He grins at her lopsidedly, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

* * *

She nearly puts the book aside when she makes it back to her quarters, but her hand hovers on the cover - simple, austere brown leather - and she wonders. There must be a reason.

She opens it, noticing a few odd little marks on the corner of one page, but ignores them, turning the pages. It's a book of...

She frowns, honestly unsure what to think of the roiling in her stomach. _Poetry_. Poetry describing the rivers of the Bannorn, the yellow fire's-eye flowers that grow up in Amaranthine, the burnished colours of autumn leaves, the smell of the Recliffe docks...

He remembered. Why taunt her with this now?

She begins to turn the pages, an odd stutter stopping her nearly halfway through the book, as if some pages won't turn properly...

Ah. She turns the page, and the piece of vellum nestled between two pages nearly falls out. She swallows, lifts it and unfolds it. It takes her a moment to recognise the handwriting - it's long, narrow, but neat, almost careful. Probably due to the wrath of the Chantry sisters, she realises, as she reads it.

_I need to explain. The chapel, sixth bell._

_Please._

_A_

The underline on "please" is a scratched, hasty thing, almost a tremor of the writer's hand (she has an image, suddenly, of him gritting his teeth, slashing a quill across the paper) and later, she will think that it was probably what made her decide. Now, however, she simply stares at the note, trying numbly to take in its contents.

* * *

The sixth bell isn't _late_. No, it's _ridiculously, unsociably_ late, only really intended for the unfortunate templars placed on night watch. Anyone _sane_ should be in a warm bed by this hour, he thinks resentfully as he stalks through the second floor corridors - this thought made even more resentful by the scraping, heavy armour he's had to put back on, so he can explain if anyone asks that he's making his way to his watch.

Not going to meet a mage in secret. Or thinking of her lips.

No, not at all.

In the chapel, Brent is surprised and a little confused to see him - isn't he meant to be on duty during the day? - but he shakes his head, praying his voice will be steady as he lies, "I think there was a mix-up with the rota. I checked with Greagoir" - and Maker, if Brent asks Greagoir, he is actually, _truly_ in trouble - "and it's me, apparently." He gives a false, long-suffering sigh. "You know how it is."

Brent does, and they exchange pleasantries for a while - he's had a letter from his sister, she's having a second child, and oh, isn't that _nice?_ \- before Brent sets off for a bed with a wave of a hand.

He waits until the other templar is out of sight down the corridor before walking further into the room and sitting on a pew, trying to calm his rapid breathing. He might be making a terrible, terrible mistake. She might be too angry to even want to see him, and wouldn't that be _just_ his luck?

He pauses, waiting for the sixth bell, and after a moment of thought, removes his helm, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.

He'll just have to wait and see.

* * *

Her eyes move across the dimly-lit chapel, surprised that there isn't a templar at the door, and she's almost tempted to turn and leave until she sees him.

His head is bowed, candlelight reflecting on his hair, and the sight makes her heart miss a beat. She walks towards him, not bothering to hide her footsteps, and she knows from the way he raises his head slightly that he's heard her. She sits slowly next to him, taking in his face - the twist of his mouth as he gazes at the helm in his hands, not looking at her. Her own mouth is a tight, unforgiving line, waiting for his next move.

He looks up after a few seconds, meeting her eye, and when he speaks, his voice is low. "You know, I could sit here and feed you some line about duty and honour, about what I want..." He shakes his head, a small, humourless laugh escaping his lips. "But I've always been a terrible liar." He places the helm aside and turns to her with a low exhale. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you." He frowns at his knees. "And I..." He lapses into silence.

She's unsure what he's saying, and struggles for a response. "Alistair..."

He looks up at the sound of his name, and something in his eyes changes suddenly. "I tried to tell myself that I couldn't _do_ this, that it was wrong..." He leans in, his eyes distraught and his voice rough. "That I didn't _want_ this."

She looks at him, her eyes wider; she's beginning to understand, the anger fading to be replaced by something else, and she reaches out a hand to him, to reassure him, to explain...

He intercepts it, taking it nervously in one of his own; the touch is careful even wearing steel, and he gazes at it as if he can't quite believe it's there. Then he looks into her eyes again, and moves forward, still holding her hand. "I _can't_ ," he admits at last, softly, and closes the distance between them.

It's gentle, as tentative as his other touches, testing the waters - rather than the previous clash of lips she offered him, it's an apology as much as a kiss, as if he's still expecting rejection. Instead, she lets go of his hand and draws him in, feeling him relax into the embrace. There's no interruption, no panicked halt, this time; he welcomes her, mirroring her movements with his own, and his hands move to her waist.

He draws back, looking for her reaction; she brings a hand to his cheek, says quietly, "I've missed you."

He breaks the silence with a small, relieved laugh, and she can't help but reach for him again, Chantry be damned.


	13. Rota & Apple Pie

In the moments afterwards, when he smiles at her - shy and relieved, the candlelight casting flickering shadows onto his face but doing little to hide the hint of a blush - they could be any other couple, in any other place.

"What, no fireballs?" he says softly, a hand still on her cheek, the touch self-consciously light due to his gauntlet, with a crooked half-smile.

She grins, managing a half-hearted, "I could try for a toad spell, if you like." He shakes his head, bemused and amused, and she adds quietly, "Take this as a sign you're forgiven."

He glances down at the pew, and when his eyes meet hers again, there's something so _hopeful_ in them that it briefly stops her breath. "Duly noted."

She looks at him for several long seconds, memorising his face, what's in his eyes. Then she raises her head, looking up as if she can see the bell, ready to ring for the seventh time. Her gaze drifts back to him, and he's watching her, begrudging resignation written on his face. "I guess you should..." he begins, hesitantly, and she nods.

"Library?" she says.

He seems to brighten, and confirms quietly, a small smile playing round the edges of his mouth, "Library. Though, considering the night watch I supposedly have..."

There was no templar on the door, she remembers, and raises her eyebrows. So _that's_ how he did it.

He cocks his head, looking both sheepish and more than a little pleased with himself. "Maybe the day after tomorrow."

"Of course." On impulse, she leans across to give him a chaste peck on the lips, enjoying his astonishment, and stands to exit the room; when she looks over her shoulder, he's still watching her, and his smile remains.

* * *

Joseph kicks and protests when they take him, gauntlets scraping painfully against his skin and grips too harsh, until one of them snaps that if he won't let them get him into the chamber, they'll just take the quickest route and make him Tranquil. He isn't sure whether or not that's even _possible_ right in this corridor, but the threat is certainly meant, and his mouth shuts abruptly with a click. The sound is barely audible above the clanking and background chatter of the brutes themselves.

"He should be here, you know," one of them mutters, the sound echoing through the hallways. Not one that's pawing him - this one's at the back, marching along.

"Not his fault, for once," another replies. "Some cock-up with the rota, I hear."

"They had to wake Brent," one more chimes in. " _Brent_. Maker, he's like a _badger_ in the..."

Greagoir still walks ahead, oblivious, but one of them in front turns - helmless - and gives the speakers a _look_. "Not now," he says, quietly but firmly.

Joseph squints at him in the half-darkness - few candles are lit, this late - with a flicker of recognition. Yes, the reasonably good-looking one: what's his name? _Cullen_ , his mind supplies, after a pause, and things click into place. The one with all those... _interesting_ rumours flying round about him and...

His thoughts drift back to her now - Irving's star student, the record-breaker - and he wonders if she's asleep yet, what's caused her odd behaviour. Better to focus on the small things than be terrified of what's ahead, but...

Demons, she said. _Demons_. He knows well enough what Irving's parchment said, but how can anyone consider him ready for _this?_

* * *

"Where were you last night?"

Alistair turns abruptly at Cullen's question, and as he looks into hard eyes, for a horrible, wrenching second, he thinks the man _knows._

Kissing her, as much as humanly possible. Letting her reach up and run her hands through his hair, aware of his pulse speeding up under her touch, astonished by the _feeling_ of it all. For once in his damned life, making a _choice._

"Night watch," he replies curtly, praying that his voice is steady and his face isn't red. "Is something wrong?"

"You should have been up here," Cullen says with more than a hint of a sigh. "It was Brent's watch, and we had to wake him up for a Harrowing instead of you. Maker, Alistair, what has been _wrong_ with you lately?"

"Oh," he manages, knowing that he can't explain that everything's been very _right_ with him recently. Well, he didn't know about the Harrowing. "Who was the apprentice?"

Cullen regards him with a small silence, as if trying to determine his motive, before replying, "Joseph. A friend of..." Something in the templar seems to suddenly, inexplicably falter.

In that moment, Alistair wonders if the guilt is actually going to kill him. Cullen is a friend, and he's loved her since he was seventeen... 

"... Irving's favourite," is the sentence's slightly lame ending.

Alistair remembers a suspicious, shrewd-eyed apprentice leading her away from him with a glare over his shoulder, the one who she's mentioned steals her closet for... meetings of a certain kind that he has no desire to know about, and inhales in sudden recognition. " _Oh,"_ he says again, his voice leaden. "Yes, I know who you mean."

* * *

Joseph wakes to the sound of his name, and when his bleary eyes at last deign to open, they're greeted with the sight of a very worried mage by his bed. "Joe?" she says again, her voice small and afraid now.

He blinks several times in the new light - not quite as bright as the flash after he touched the lyrium, and _Maker_ , he doesn't want to deal with those memories right now - and finds himself muttering something that sounds like, "No... not... not the frilly ones..."

She smiles, and her voice is wry as she replies, "Welcome back, Enchanter."

He groans at the title, waving a despairing hand at her but not moving otherwise. "This is the Fade, isn't it? I'm stuck in a bloody nightmare."

She just laughs. "You know, they're doing apple pie downstairs."

That perks him up, as do a table's cheers and raises of goblets when he enters the hall wearing mustard yellow. He glances at her, seeing the pleased pride in her eyes, and makes for the source of the pie smell.

The nightmares and the memories can wait.

* * *

The next day, she feels shy, for the first time since seeing her templar's face, as she enters the library. Her footsteps are hesitant, careful, and she fights to keep a foolish smile off her face, the book of poetry tucked under an arm. The familiar armoured figure waits in their corner, shifting his weight nervously. She makes for the Primal section, leaning down as if to browse the shelves, before she asks innocently, "Tired?" She wonders if he's adjusted after the all-night watch yet.

He doesn't even turn, but she hears a low, quiet laugh that she decides she likes very much. It sends something pleasantly warm down her spine. "Tired? A templar is ever vigilant, my lady."

"Hmm," she replies sceptically, and pauses, lifting a finger to her lips as she considers. "Are you smirking under there?"

Another laugh, surprised and hastily suppressed. "Wow. That's... quite scary, actually. Did your friend make it through?"

"Joseph?" she asks, remembering coming back to the dormitory and hearing the news from a couple of anxious-eyed apprentices, rushing to his bedside. "Yes, he'll be fine. Fine enough to gorge on apple pie, anyway. How did you...?"

"I was meant to be there. Unfortunately, there happened to be a... mix-up with the watch rota." There is a very explanatory silence.

"How inconvenient," she replies, somehow staying straight-faced.

"Yes, very. But these things happen." His tone is deceptively casual. "They have in the past, and they probably will do again."

There is a pause, and, still crouched by the shelves, she turns to look at him. "'Again'?"

"I could ask them to adjust it, if you're so worried..." And there it is again, that teasing edge she doesn't hear enough.

She turns back to the books, her smile so wide that her cheeks ache, and doesn't look at him. "No, I'm sure it will be perfectly satisfactory."

"Oh, I hope so," he mutters, and her smile widens further.


	14. Tally

She's... _different_ , somehow, Joseph can't help thinking, as she takes him by the hand and leads him to the Harrowed mages' floor. Her smile is wide, her eyes bright, and now he's remembering her expression the last time they were up here, when she was settling into her own room; her smiles were small and she was too quiet.

Now... it's like having her back. It's like her terror over the Harrowing, the odd library phobia, never happened.

She looks over her shoulder, her smile fading. "What?" At his silence, she tries, "Joseph?"

He shakes his head, a grin pulling at his lips, unsure how to explain it. "Just... you." She frowns, but there's a glint to her eye and colour in her cheeks that makes him ask, "It's a man, isn't it?"

The smile drops abruptly, and she looks away from him and to the stone floor, leaving him wondering what he's done wrong. "No..." she replies, her voice suddenly seeming very thin in the silence, "nothing like that. Something for another time, maybe."

And then the smile is back in place, the air changed, and he's left wrong-footed, remembering the last time he asked a question like this.

_Alright, who is he?_

_No-one. No-one important at all._

_No-one_ his Fereldan, yellow-robed arse. "Maker," he says, eventually, "just tell me it's not Irving."

Amusement and a little terror flit across her face, then she smiles, genuinely this time. "No, it's not Irving. I told you, there's no-one. I'm just... relieved."

He raises his eyebrows disbelievingly and turns away from her, muttering, "Just as long as you haven't got yourself a sadist in heavy plate..."

There's a silence.

When he turns round, her face is horrified, and he regrets saying anything at all. Then she schools her expression into something a little more neutral. "Andraste's _blood,_ Joseph, you _know_ I'd never..."

The question was mostly - but not _entirely,_ they've all heard the rumours about the mages who _have_ \- in jest, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

 _"Another time_ ," she says again, firmly, and he turns from her to regard his room.

"Very nice," he decides eventually, and he throws himself onto the bed with a sigh, inspecting it lazily. "Think your bed might stand up to more, though," he adds, pressing a hand against the mattress.

"And you'll never find out," she replies smoothly, still looking around the small stone chamber. "Even if it _is_ just down the corridor."

As they exit the room, he thinks he hears her exhale in a low _phew_ , but that's probably his imagination.

* * *

"What is this?"

She holds the small, simply-bound book out with tentative hands, and Alistair's helm tilts as he regards it. With a sigh, he finally replies, "Looks like poetry to me."

She's been meaning to ask since he gave it to her, and the forced lightness in the tone isn't going to make her give up on the question. "But _why_?" she asks, hiding the book swiftly behind her back and feigning browsing the shelves.

"It was..." Another sigh. "It was the only book I had that wasn't from this library."

Something that simple? She fights her disappointment.

"And I..." He seems to trip over his words, and she would give anything, in this moment, to see his expression. "I thought they could say it better than I ever could." She hears him swallow.

The poets. "Oh, Alistair..." she sighs, knowing that only he will hear it. Not so simple after all, perhaps.

"It's one of the few things I still have from the Chantry. Found it one morning soon after I was sent there, and it wasn't holy texts or some dreary historian's essays, so..." A clank, a lifting of steel, as he somehow manages to shrug. She wonders, suddenly, about the weight of the armour, and realises once again that he must be strong to _move_ so much in it. The thought makes her throat a little dry, for reasons that aren't entirely clear, and she's relieved when he continues, "I used to count the days. I'm pretty sure the Revered Mother would've killed me for such disrespectful treatment of the books." A very, very shaky laugh. "What can I say? I was young."

She remembers the odd little marks on the corners of the pages that she hasn't been able to interpret, no matter how hard she's tried, and now she has trouble swallowing for entirely different reasons. A running tally. "How long?" she asks.

"Hmm?" He's heard, she's sure of it, he's just buying himself time. There's a pause. "Until I gave it to you, I suppose."

In the silence that follows, she looks down at the book in her hands, suddenly aware of its worth. "Would you like it back?" she asks quietly.

More clanking as he shakes his head, raising a hand as if to push it back to her. "You... you keep it for now. I thought of you when I was reading it, and it just seemed... right, somehow. I think you need it more than me."

She isn't sure what she can say, so she just settles for, "I trust the watch rota is back to its usual organised state?"

A long out breath. "Not entirely. It's still... rather confused, I'm afraid. There's still potential for mistakes."

* * *

As it turns out, another night watch isn't even needed. When she has the idea, walking past Leorah's empty room, she smiles, and Joseph frowns at her. She shakes her head.

When she finally gets to the library, her question is slightly breathless. "When does your watch end?"

* * *

On the way to the library, just after fourth bell (the beginning of the night watch, and oh, she shouldn't know that but she _does_ ), she pokes her head around the door. Empty. And a corner hidden by shelves.

_Perfect._

She's further down the corridor - near the library - when she hears armour and swallows, unable to believe what she's doing. A step just slightly into the man's path, a graze of the shoulder (and if it's the wrong templar, she will be insulted and pushed away, perhaps, but even _they_ can't use an accidental brush as an excuse for a smite) and then she hears a small, "Sorry... Wait, what are you...?" She breathes a sigh of relief.

"With me," she says very, very softly. There's a half-second pause, then he nods.

He trusts her. A _templar, this_ templar, trusts her. She can't quite believe it herself.

Then he falls back, allows her to walk on, and she hears him follow at a safe distance, as if they're perfect strangers. She steps into Leorah's room casually, without a look back, as if she has a perfect reason to be there, and ducks into the corner covered by shelves.

She hears him enter the room, softly call her name, and then he seems to work it out. He joins her, and there's a frozen moment as the two of them simply _look_ at each other, both aware of why she's chosen this spot. Then she's reaching up, pulling at his helm, and he laughs softly. "Well, _someone's_ eager." He helps her the rest of the way, lifting it off and putting it aside without much care.

The two of them stop as her hands move to his gauntlets, and he looks at her questioningly for a long moment. Then he takes them off, too, and they're somewhere by the helm.

The eagerness fades, suddenly, tempered by curiosity. She takes his hands, both of them, remembering when he did the same in the Chantry, running her thumbs gently along his palms, and he watches her with held breath, allowing it, his eyes flickering from his hands to her as if measuring her reaction. His hands are nothing like a mage's - they're rougher, calloused, the skin a little more tan. They're long-fingered, yet strong and broad - tools of combat rather than casting, a swordsman's hands. She grazes his fingers with her own, enjoying her discovery. She looks up and meets his eye; he's still watching her, as if awaiting her approval, and she smiles.

She isn't sure whether one or both of them moves, but it's a shared exhale, a sigh of relief; and then his hands are in her hair, his mouth on her own, his breathing rough, and she's pressing as close to him as armour allows. He cups her jaw to deepen the kiss, obviously enjoying his freed hands just as much as she is, and when he withdraws, his thumb is drawing patterns on her cheekbones. Both of them know their time here is limited, that this room can't stay empty forever, and he leans down once more.

"Thank you," she says softly, when it's over.

He smiles, his breathing still a little uneven, and asks, his voice low so it doesn't carry to the corridor, "For the book, or for this?"

"Would it be odd if I said both?"


	15. Epiphany

"What's the past tense of 'smite'?" she asks, a few days later, as she's running a hand along the spines of the Primal section's books yet again.

"'Smote'," he replies confidently. "As in, 'and then the Maker smote him for kissing the pretty mage'."

She looks up, a smile twisting her lips. "Really?"

He nods, the helm clanking. "Really. One of the first things we were taught."

"I'll have to tell Joseph that. Useful knowing a templar," she mutters, and then says it at last. "'Pretty'?"

He clears his throat. "I may... have to correct that. Let's see... How's 'beautiful'? Is that better?"

She just looks at him, aware that her mouth may be hanging open a little, and then smiles once again. "Much, much better."

* * *

When Joseph refers to the time "that bastard smited Anders" - who has decided to sit with them today - she absentmindedly corrects him, "Smote." He looks at her, frowning and opening his mouth to ask, but she explains, "Read it somewhere."

She looks at Anders, who's regarding her with raised eyebrows, a spoon of something spongy drowned in what might be custard (but has about an equal chance of being leftover gravy) halfway to his mouth. "Interesting book," he says slowly, a crease growing between his brows. "Any idea where I could find it?"

"There's a Chantry history section... somewhere in the library," she replies, lowering her eyes back to her food and hoping for the subject to change.

But it's the _beautiful_ running round her head when she's back in Leorah's room, easing her templar's helm off and running grateful fingers along his jaw, thinking that he's not so bad himself.

* * *

Alistair looks up as he hears an exhale and someone sits next to him. He looks to his side to see Cullen poking at something that might be porridge. Maker, he hopes it's porridge.

Is porridge _grey?_

He looks up as Cullen asks, "What's happened to you?"

He inhales sharply, and has to struggle not to choke on his relentlessly tough hunk of bread. It can't be _that_ obvious, surely. "Beg your pardon?"

"You seem... I don't know. You hate it here."

Alistair frowns. "I've never said that."

"You've never had to," Cullen tells him. "But you're... _happy_. You've _never_ been happy here."

"That's not true," he protests weakly, knowing that it absolutely is. "I mean, look at the tailoring! And the food..." He trails off, staring at Cullen's grey breakfast. "Well, maybe not the food. But still, it's not that bad."

Cullen looks at him suspiciously, then his face eases into a smile. "Maybe you've finally settled in," he says at last, relenting his scrutiny with a light, nervous laugh. "Maker, we all thought it would never happen."

Alistair gives him a small, tentative smile back, hating himself for it.

The Knight-Commander strides through the hall, imposing even in his old age, and they watch his progress in silence until Cullen asks, "D'you think we'll end up like him?"

Alistair is taken over by the image of them old and grey, still trapped here (surely there are transfers, or Chantry posts, or _something_ , that they can ask for?), and fights nausea. "Maker's breath, I hope not," he mutters, and freezes at a sudden chilling epiphany.

That's what _she's_ facing. A lifetime in stone walls, with no transfers and no way out. And suddenly he wants her in his arms, wants her hand in his; wants to take her to Lake Calenhad, let her feel the breeze and show her the stars. He swallows, and aches just a little more for her.

"Alistair?" Cullen asks next to him, his voice concerned.

He turns to the other man, pasting on a smile and asking, "Any news from Ostagar?"

* * *

It's a time of stolen kisses and breathless affection. They pretend not to know each other in the corridors, templar and mage once again, but then they find themselves in Leorah's room - or, on one memorable occasion when the Senior Enchanter was checking her paperwork, behind the bookshelves of Torrin's - wishing for just a little more _time._

"Do you remember trees?" she asks him one day, voice barely above a whisper so they won't be heard by those in the corridor outside.

"Don't you?" is his reply, and something in his face twists when she shakes her head, his eyes far away. "I can't believe..." Then he's taking her hand, gently running a thumb along her knuckles as he explains softly and quietly, "You've seen pictures, right? Well... like that. They're all... leaves, and this rough bark that scrapes your knees..." At her quizzical look, he elaborates, "I used to climb them, back in Redcliffe. Fell out of them a lot, too." He gives her an embarrassed half-smile. "I remember, there was this one that Teagan told me about. I used to go there in the summer, when I could get away from helping out in the stables, and I'd sit under it and just... think. I fell asleep under there once, and I swear it was only Isolde that stopped Eamon sending out a search party..."

The names spark something in her head, a half-memory, and when she asks who they are he looks away from her, his hand dropping hers. "The Arl of Redcliffe took me in for a while, before I was sent to the Chantry."

"What about your parents?"

His eyes on the shelves, he replies, "My mother died in childbirth. My father... well, I knew who my father was, but he wasn't exactly _interested_. I was a bastard, you see, and, well..." He cuts himself off. "What about you?"

"I... I never knew them." She's looking at her feet as she says it, suddenly realising that this isn't normal, that most children knew theirs - and for a moment, it's like losing them, like the Fade all over again.

She jumps at his touch as he brushes a stray lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear; he cups her chin, gently raising her head, lowering his own to look at her. This time there's no gauntlet, no hasty stepping away and boundaries to worry about - the tenderness in his eyes nearly takes her breath away, and she wonders how she could ever have been afraid of the man before her. "That's nothing to be ashamed of," he tells her. "You turned out beautifully."

"Alistair..." she breathes, unable to find the words, and then she's kissing him again.

"Was it something I said?" he murmurs, low and amused, as they separate, and she wishes he didn't have to leave.

* * *

She's reading through yet another poem - trying to imagine the golden rays of the sun, the sheep's-wool clouds and blue sky, and not quite succeeding. She runs a hand over the little gate of marks in the corner of the page (day three thousand, six hundred; she realises that she, too, has been counting them, and wonders why, the image of a bored, hazel-eyed young man floating in her head). The candle is burned low, nearly to a stump, and she watches the flame, pretending that she isn't thinking of him. The blush on her cheeks and tingle on her lips gives her away, however, and she sighs, half in frustration and half in contentment.

She remembers Joseph's dire threats about "metal-plated bastards", Anders's descriptions of smites, and she wonders how he could ever possibly be one of them. She misses him, even now; his mouth and his hands, his jokes and his smile... She places the book aside, blowing out the candle, and settles down to sleep, a smile on her face and goosebumps on her skin.

_You turned out beautifully._

The realisation hits her like ice water, her eyes opening to stare at the ceiling, wide and afraid.

She's _falling_ for a _templar._

* * *

A _templar_ , she thinks again as she hurries through the corridors, fighting not to shake her head, trying not to imagine Joseph's face at the very thought of it.

No, she thinks suddenly, and begins to understand.

Alistair. _Her_ templar.

* * *

Maybe it's her realisation. Maybe it's the way he's looking at her. Or maybe it's the way he closes his eyes, leaning into her touch instinctively as she rests a hand on his cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble against her palm. Maybe she's simply tired of waiting.

She isn't sure, but something makes her whisper softly, while they have a stolen moment, "I... I have private quarters. If we're quiet..."

His eyes snap open with an intake of breath, and she feels him retreat. He steps back, looking away from her.

She frowns, more than a little hurt, wondering if he's misunderstood her. "Alistair?" she asks, keeping her voice quiet.

His eyes are fixed on the floor, a definite blush suffusing his cheeks, and he swallows, seeming to stumble over his words. "I... this is a little sudden, isn't it?" He looks back up, and she sees the oddest thing in his eyes: almost... _fear_. "Not that I don't..." He exhales heavily. "But I was raised to take this sort of thing seriously, and..."

She remembers his tales of being raised in the Chantry, and it hits her. Her eyes widen. "Are you a - ?" she breathes, her chest tight with shock.

She doesn't need to say the word; his expression confirms her suspicions. Embarrassment evident in every line of his face, he glances at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. "You could say that..." He meets her eye, finally, and seems to wait for her reaction. "Yes. Yes, I am."

Her face is nearly as red as his own. "I suppose... there wasn't much opportunity to, in the Chantry." She belatedly realises, seeing the way that he can barely manage to look her in the eye, that she isn't the one that needs reassurance here - this time, it's her that takes his face in her hands, makes him look at her; she's the one smiling and saying gently, "I'm not going anywhere, you know."

He lets out a sigh of relief, finally daring to hold her gaze. "Good to know. That could have been..." He trails off with a shaky little laugh.

She gives him another soft, chaste kiss, and then something occurs to her, and she's drawing back to regard him curiously. "Was there anyone before you came here?"

Once again, he seems embarrassed, and he shakes his head. "As you said, there weren't exactly many opportunities..."

She looks at him, trying not to let her incredulity show, wondering if this is the case for many of the other templars. No wonder he's seemed so reserved about all this.

If he was anyone else, she'd probably be irritated, assume he was toying with her, but she sees the sincerity in his eyes. It mostly extinguishes her frustration, and she says lightly, "It was only an offer."

* * *

Late that night, he splashes the water once more over his face, if only to douse his burning cheeks, remembering her words. She offered him...

Well, she offered him _herself_ , and what was he meant to say to _that?_

Not that he isn't interested. No, he's far too interested, if he's honest with himself. But she was so _casual_ about it, and he was standing there looking like a bumbling _fool..._

Surely, though, she must trust him - if only a little - to even ask. He's never seen her act like that with anyone else, and he confesses to himself that he _wants_ her to trust him, _wants_ to be with her. He's probably making a fool of himself, and this is all so _new_ ; he's never felt like this before, and it kind of scares him, actually...

 _Maker_ , he thinks, resting his hands on the edges of the basin. He listens to the water droplets from his skin hitting the water below, his own ragged breathing the only other sound in the abandoned washroom.

He's _falling_ for a _mage._


	16. Decision

The sombre, pale-faced and dirt-streaked group of mages that stride into the tower the next day bring grave news. Ostagar - and with it, the Grey Wardens, the _King_ \- have fallen to the darkspawn horde.

Uldred tells Irving this with tired, solemn eyes, and adds that it was only General Loghain's quick thinking that had them off the field before they, too, could fall. Loghain, the man who has now declared himself regent. Irving frowns at this, but looks around, seeing the mages gaping at them and motions for them to follow him: to his office, no doubt.

She watches them go, her own face ashen, and begins the quick walk to the library.

* * *

The atmosphere in the tower is subdued; people pretend not to hear the arguments between the senior magi that reach even through Irving's thick office door - Wynne's voice duelling with Uldred's, mentions of "Loghain" and "trust" and "the kingdom".

Some of the mages try to return things within the stone walls to normal - Wynne takes her old quarters, begins her Creation classes once again in earnest, but it doesn't take much to see the hollow, haunted look behind her eyes. Or behind Irving's, his star pupil thinks as he calls her in to discuss how she is settling into her magehood.

* * *

The tower may be still, but Alistair's thoughts are most definitely _not_.

Part of him is still horrified by the sheer _scale_ of it, another by the fact it happened at _all_. Sure, if you listened to some, the Wardens were a redundant bunch of fossils, and yet... if you listened to others, you'd have thought they were invincible. _Warriors without peer_ , he heard them called once, and he wonders if that's true.

There's another side to his thoughts, too - one he doesn't quite want to admit to. He can't help thinking that all the soldiers - how many of them had marched into battle expecting to die that night? So many lives, snuffed out so quickly, as if the Maker had just clicked His almighty fingers. And he can't help thinking, then... what if? What if there's an apostate that gets past his guard, a blade that goes awry, a magical accident? It just seems so bloody _easy_ to lose everything in a single, fell swoop.

How many of them kissed their wives, their husbands, goodbye before they left for the fortress?

It brings his thoughts back to _her_ again, and inevitably, to her offer. 

He remembers the hurt in her eyes when he refused her, and feels a stab of guilt; but it isn't just guilt - something else is in the pit of his stomach, too. For all that he tries to be a gentleman, to try and deny it, with every kiss he wants _more_ , quests a little further, and is aware that she welcomes it. He thinks the offer may still be open, and that thought has his face flaming and his eyes darting to the floor - he quickly has to distract himself from it, lest he forget where he is.

But recent events - they make him wonder if life's simply too short. He's being driven mad by her sweet laugh, her wide, earnest eyes; the clinging robes and her lips and the sheer _happiness_ that emanates off of her when they're together, the way she smiles at him and slips her hand into his as they recover their breath; the way his heart speeds up and his hands shake when he's around her...

If there's going to be someone, it should be her. The woman he thinks he may just... Well, he can't think the word _love_. It feels a little too final, a little too ominous in his head, and he'd probably scare her away if he started talking like that.

It doesn't mean he doesn't _feel_ it.

He shuts his eyes tightly, shaking his head, and Cullen leans over to look at him in concern. "Alistair?"

He looks at his fellow templar and remembers he has a job to do; he slides on and fastens his helm, nodding, and pretends all is well once again.

* * *

The nightmare surprises him, comes from nowhere, and is painful for all its simplicity: she is being taken from him. Cullen and Greagoir have firm, calm grips on her arms - she stares at him pleadingly, and he somehow, instinctively knows where they're taking her. It's the gentleness in their hold, the way they ignore her attempts to struggle - as if resistance is futile, only a temporary barrier - that tells him where they're going. He has a vision of the small, dimly-lit chamber, with the sun branding iron and the lyrium.

He tears off his helm, breaks away from his colleagues, and runs for her soul. It all happens a little fast after that: she calls his name; he grabs for her hand and manages to grasp it (and somehow, the lack of gauntlets or armour seem perfectly natural, even though they were there only a moment ago); she smiles at him, and then there are gauntleted hands, hands that belong to men he knows, restraining him.

* * *

He wakes shaking and in a cold sweat, praying once again that he hasn't called her name in his sleep.

When they manage a meeting in Leorah's room, he makes the first move, barely pausing for breath as he kisses her, holding her as though he's afraid to let go (admitting to himself that he probably _is_ , after the dream).

And makes his decision.

* * *

Something's wrong; this time, when they meet, he doesn't take off his helm straight away. She hears him exhale heavily before he does, and then he can barely look her in the eye, his gaze directed at the helm in his hands, his brows furrowed.

"Alistair?" she asks, worried that he's changed his mind again, that he's come to say that this should end after all.

A heavy sigh. "Alright," he says quietly, "I guess I really don't know how to ask you this..." He meets her eye, and there's something in his gaze behind the worry - something that _burns_. "Your offer..." he begins, and swallows. "Is it still... open?"

It takes her a moment to speak, surprised as she is, her pulse racing at what he's suggesting. "Of course," she replies, and reaches up to kiss him gently, breaking away after only a moment. "Yes, of course."

He smiles - it's a soft, tentative thing, nervous and breakable, and he turns the helm over in his hands as he says it. "I think you might be driving me a little crazy."

He probably doesn't expect her grin. "Nice to know. And do you _really_ think it's just you?"

He looks up now, obviously surprised. "Oh." Then he recovers and replies, "Well, you know what they say - madness loves company."

"It does indeed," she says, taking the helm, placing it aside and pulling him down for another kiss. Afterwards, she begins to whisper directions in his ear, and to remember the ingredients for a certain relevant potion.

* * *

His palms are sweating. Before he met her, the only times that would ever happen were when Greagoir would call him into his office and give him the Look, the one with all the shrewd eyes and perfect templar posture and...

Now? Now it happens _all the time_. And he's even more keenly aware of it because he has no gauntlets on. He knows he probably should have worn armour for this, and it'll probably be tonight, of all nights, that he'll be caught, because that's _just_ his luck...

He shakes his head. Argh. He's rambling again. He can't even get away from it in his own _head_.

He has his reasons. The heavy plate clanks too much, and somehow... somehow he didn't want to come to her in armour. He wants to meet her as... just _Alistair_ , he supposes, and he'll have to hope she isn't too disappointed. To stand before her as a man, rather than a templar.

He remembers what she told him, and turns the corner - he knows well enough where he's going anyway, he's patrolled down here enough times. It's late, he tells himself, the guard will be smaller, they'll be tired...

Somehow, he still manages to find a templar.

He hears the noises of plate - and he's sure it doesn't seem that loud when he's wearing it - and ducks hastily back behind the wall. He's had to do this twice already. He's been avoiding walking too long down the corridors, ducking into stockrooms and behind bookshelves if needed. Stealth has never been his strength; at one point, he narrowly missed Brent. The halls are so open that they're rarely patrolled - it's really the corridors outside the apprentices' dormitories that are heavily guarded; the mages' quarters are less so, as if they trust them somewhat more, though he doubts it. He thanks the Maker that she's Harrowed, and that he has the guard rota down by heart.

He holds his breath until the templar walks past the doorway, and silently decides that next time, he's definitely doing this in his armour, so he can explain it away as a rota mistake once again.

That's assuming there'll _be_ a next time, he realises belatedly, his face flaming.

Then he's through the door, through another... He pauses, but seeing no movement, he walks through the next, where the quarters are. Hearing no templars, he keeps his footsteps brisk and businesslike rather than conspicuously quiet (any mages awake will hopefully assume that he's just another one of them, back from the library at a late hour) and thinks once again of what she told him. Third from the right...

He reaches it, and there are candles burning; he can see from the light spilling out under her door. For some reason, that, the knowledge that she's waiting for him, is what makes him stop and take a deep breath, unable to believe that he's doing this. He raises a shaking hand and... knocks.

He hears something, and then she's opening the door; she's clad in her usual robes and smiling, though it's briefly replaced by surprise as she sees that he's without armour, in only a simple shirt, breeches and boots. He suddenly feels a little self-conscious, a little too... _big_ for the space he's in as she regards him, her smile restored.

Then she does something that surprises him: she says nothing, only holds out a hand. She watches him levelly, affection but no obligation in her eyes, and he realises that he has a choice.

He reminds himself once again that this is against everything he's been taught, a crime in the eyes of Andraste.

This is the sweetest kind of blasphemy.

He takes her hand, aware his own is shaking - her fingers are warm, slender and soft against his - and then, somehow, he's kissing her, amazed once again that he's here, that she's letting him _do_ this. "Maker, you're..." he breathes, searching for the words.

She draws back, and her smile steals whatever he meant to say. She gently places a finger to his lips. Still holding his hand, she leads him into the room, and he gladly surrenders.

* * *

Once again, she wishes he didn't have to leave.

This time, however, it's different: it's because he's stretched out beside her, tangled in her sheets with mussed hair and a smile, seeming more than a little dazed as he looks at the ceiling. "I'm still waiting for the lightning," he explains eventually, keeping his voice barely more than a whisper.

She grins, shifting a little closer and laying her head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. He's here, and he's hers, she realises suddenly. "I think you've forgotten the righteous smiting," she replies sleepily, moving and drawing a small, plaintive, "Ow," from him.

"What?" she asks, careful to keep her voice low.

"You headbutted me in the _chin_ ," he answers. And then the two of them are shaking with inexplicable, hastily-suppressed laughter, until he says, "Look..." He moves, she withdraws, and he slides down the bed - no doubt ruining her sheets even more - to face her at eye-level, his expression a little more serious. "I..." He lays a hand on her cheek; there's a pause, and he swallows, seems to lose his nerve. "Thank you," he says eventually, the words soft and a little amazed, and kisses her. It's gentle, content, not the burning grasping for more that they've been sharing recently.

"It was lovely. _You_ were lovely," she tells him. She wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep with the warmth of him next to her, but doesn't even want to imagine the outcry if they're found like this.

He's obviously thinking the same, as he tells her regretfully, "I have to go." He rests his head on her shoulder, trying to summon up the will, and then he's sliding away, and she misses his arms. She nods to the basin in her room, and he smiles his thanks. She raises an eyebrow, stifling a laugh as he pulls the sheet with him in a last, belated attempt at modesty - old habits die hard, it seems. He hears her, and looks at her indignantly before raising a hand to his forehead. "Oh, sod it," he mutters, dropping the sheet. She openly enjoys the view; he catches her expression and reddens endearingly.

She reluctantly sits up to summon the ice and fire spells for the water, as she does for herself every morning, but he pauses as something on the wall seems to catch his eye. She knows perfectly well what it is, what collection the poem's from. She watches him read the lines, and then he looks at her over his shoulder; he's surprised and more than a little pleased. "'The Oak'. I guess you liked the book."

She neatly wrote out her favourite of all the poems one day in a flight of fancy, sticking the parchment to the wall with wax. It took several minutes. She still isn't sure why - maybe it was to have something of her own, something to show that this room is hers; an attempt to recapture the way she used to feel about her dormitory, before it was taken from her. She nods, blushing slightly, and joins him at the basin.

He's re-reading the parchment, then his eyes flicker back to her, warm and curious. "Trees again?"

She's surprised he remembered.

He pretends not to let his eyes linger on her further, with little success, and swallows, looking away. "Right. Leaving."

She calls the spells into her fingers, leaning her head on his shoulder absentmindedly while she does. He watches, enraptured, with none of the fear she would expect from a templar.

When he's dressed and walking to her door, he looks back at her; she's sitting on the edge of her bed, watching him go. He gives her one last smile - it's small, pleased but resigned - then opens her door, checking the corridor before stepping through and shutting it with a quiet _click_.

She stretches out on her bed, ignoring the state of it, and half-heartedly drags a sheet over herself before drifting into the Fade.


	17. Corners

When she reaches the hall the next morning, Joseph is unusually subdued. She sits next to him, and he says quietly by way of explanation, "It's getting worse."

"What?" she asks, genuinely confused.

He inclines his head towards where the senior magi are sitting, deep in discussion. "There's obviously a problem. They're always locked in Irving's office, and Uldred..." He grimaces. "Have you listened to him lately?" At her shake of the head, he continues, "It's all about how we'll never be accepted unless Teyrn Loghain shows that mages can help the war effort. I don't know. He genuinely seems to believe we're in a Blight, and if you hear him talk about the horde... thank the Maker I wasn't on that field."

She looks over at them again, swallowing. "If there really is a war on, more conflict is _all_ we need."

He nods. "Something has to give."

* * *

When she reaches the library's Primal section she asks, "Are you alright?" She's genuinely concerned; she remembers Alistair's nervousness, wonders if last night was a moment of madness, and she doesn't want him to regret... her.

There's a pause. Then he answers, "I'm... _very_ alright. If a little tired."

She coughs to hide a laugh, unable to say more with the risk of being heard. "Glad to hear it."

It's only later, when they're in Leorah's room, that he observes casually, "Y'know, breaking those particular vows is _wildly_ underrated. If _that's_ what they're missing out on, I have no idea how anyone actually manages to stay loyal to the Order." His smile falls, and he asks, "Do you think anyone...?"

"Heard?" She shakes her head. "I doubt it. And besides, they probably assumed it was yet another apprentice giving..." She grimaces. "... _Companionship._ "

He frowns. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Less than the Chantry would have you believe," she replies, slightly sheepishly, "but more than you'd think. The mages' quarters are... frequented quite often."

He raises his eyebrows. " _Oh_." He seems to pause and consider it. "That... could be useful, actually." His eyes meet hers, and then he hastily looks away, running a hand through his hair, obviously embarrassed at the turn his thoughts have taken.

She rather likes that turn, herself. She just smiles, more than a little impishly. "You're right. It could."

* * *

If they were any other couple, in any other place, they wouldn't be able to keep their hands off each other. In the tower, opportunities are few and far between.

The second time, he's nearly caught on his way to her quarters, only the sound of armour giving him any warning; luckily, he ducks into a herbalism storeroom until the other templar is out of sight.

The third time is straight after his watch; she pulls him into that same storeroom, the two of them working to hastily shed his armour, and he silences her mouth with his own. Trysts in corners? She thinks with a guilty smile that she's turning into Joseph. It drops from her face as she imagines what he'd think of all this.

* * *

Lerie. The news filters up from the apprentices' dormitories and reaches Joseph a few minutes later. Lerie - short, sweet Lerie, who's known him since he was five - is being Harrowed. He looks sleepily at the clock (and of course, the templars like to take mages late, so it won't be a spectacle; he thinks bitterly that it's probably so the other mages can't protest at how the apprentice is being handled).

She needs to know. Lerie has been a good friend to them both.

He strides to her quarters, shoving open the door and...

 _Oh_.

She's locked in an embrace, the fellow's shirt lying at her feet, kissing him desperately, his hands at the laces of her robes. So this is the mystery man, her "no-one important".

She spots Joseph and freezes, quickly disentangling herself and adjusting her robes; he opens his mouth, caught between embarrassment and wanting to congratulate her. Her man looks away, blushing, and retrieves his shirt, pulling it quickly over his head. His face is unfamiliar, though handsome - Joseph's certain he hasn't seen him before - and Joseph wonders where his robes are.

Then he thinks about the muscle he'd never expect on a mage, the glint and cord of a Chantry amulet round the man's neck, her frightened face, and understands.

Oh Maker no.


	18. Unrest

Once again, she wishes that the templars would allow them locks, that she didn't have to rely on the lateness of the hour and the respect of her fellows for privacy - but as she looks at the shocked face of the man who was once allowed into this room unconditionally, she wishes it a thousandfold.

Joseph's jaw hardens and he turns, walking out of the room. She darts a glance at Alistair before running after her friend.

"Joseph!" And oh, he's actually shaking.

"What was it?" he asks bitterly as he steps into his quarters, his voice too loud. "What did that one let you get away with for a few extra _favours?"_

"No!" she says, closing the door and then putting a hand on his shoulder. "It isn't like that. He... I care about him," she finishes quietly.

Joseph raises his face from his palm, and her gut wrenches at his expression. There's no other word for it - it truly is disgust. He steps away from her touch, and says, shaking his head, "How can you even call yourself a mage?"

Well, she has to admit, that one hurt. "Please... I can't help it."

He shakes his head again, as if in disbelief. "You promised you'd never..."

"Never a templar," she ends for him. "I know. But... maybe we were wrong."

"No," he grits out. "Or have you forgotten what they've done to our kind for centuries now? That... man in there will have killed mages. Maybe just one, maybe plenty more." She looks away, unable to even contemplate telling him about Keris, and he continues, "And you can say you _care_ about him?!"

"He is a man, just as you are," she replies, seeing his face twist at the fact, "and he makes me happy."

If she thought his tone was bitter before, it makes her wince now, and his eyes are two chips of steel. "Yes, it looks like he does. Studying for the Harrowing, were you?" Her face goes a little slack with shock, and he says, "In all fairness, it _was_ rather obvious. You were acting so oddly..." Another shake of his head, and he turns. "I'm honestly not sure I can look you in the eye."

She watches him, and when he doesn't turn, change his mind, _anything_ , she makes her way back to her quarters.

Alistair's sitting on her bed, his head in his hands, and looks up when he hears her enter the room. "That... could have gone better."

She nods, and slumps next to him. "If there was one person I thought would understand..." Her voice fails her, and she shakes her head. "He said I wasn't worth calling a mage," she manages eventually, her voice bleak.

She feels rather than sees him put his arm round her, his lips on her hair. "I'm sorry." She hears him thinking in the silence, and then: "I should talk to him," he decides.

" _No_ ," she replies vehemently. "He's a stubborn bastard. It'll have to be him that decides to change, if he does."

He looks at her, his eyes anxious. "And you're sure he's trustworthy?"

"Yes. He hates the templars, and the senior magi... Most people know they're a bunch of hypocrites. He's not so resentful he can't see that. He'd never confide in them." She frowns at her knees, her voice rough and quiet. "Jowan, Joseph... I'm just so _tired_."

"He'll come round," Alistair replies, sounding like he's trying to convince himself as much as her. "After all, you _are_ awfully hard to resist."

She gives him a weak attempt at a smile and settles against him, unable to make herself move, trying to take comfort from his warmth.

* * *

He feels her relax, her breathing evening out, and slowly extracts his arm. He lays her down gently, wrapping a sheet round her and brushing a kiss against the top of her head before he stands. He opens the door, checking the corridor outside, and then steps out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Discovering that a furious mage works like a very effective bucket of ice water, and watching her lose her second-oldest friend due to him? Quite a night, by anyone's standards.

He sighs, suddenly feeling guilty. He wonders what he expected. Celebration? They were both afraid of this, and it appears that it was for good reason. He's beginning to wonder what more it will cost her.

* * *

When she awakes the next morning, a sheet thrown over her that she knows she didn't put there, it's to news of Lerie. She goes to visit her friend as soon as possible, arriving at her dormitory only to find her deep in conversation with Joseph. She's smiling, relaxed, and greets her with a grin.

Joseph looks up, meets her eye, and quickly looks away. She sees his teeth clench, and then he's looking back to Lerie, making excuses to leave.

The newly-Harrowed mage watches him go, puzzled, and then her eyes fall back to her. "Has something happened with you two?"

She shakes her head, avoiding Lerie's eye. "He's been acting a little strangely recently," she lies. "I'm sure it'll pass."

But she is becoming more certain, as the seconds tick by and he doesn't return, that it won't.

* * *

The tower is tense and unhappy. Joseph hasn't spoken to her since the night he discovered the truth.

Even Alistair, usually her anchor of warmth and terrible jokes, is quieter when he sees her. He seems drawn and distracted, and the next time he has a chance to visit her, he brings news of unrest in the templar quarters.

"We can all tell something's brewing," he says, leaning over her basin, his shoulders squared and tense, "it's just that none of them will let us in on it. Greagoir looks... well, even more severe than he usually does, and with Uldred going round shouting about how brilliant Loghain is..." He shakes his head. "The Knight-Commander looks more and more like he's going to smite him every day."

"Have you heard Wynne?" she asks, and he shakes his head. "She's saying that all he's spreading about the Grey Wardens betraying the King is lies. But Irving seems to believe him." She sighs. "I have no idea what to think." 

There's a depressed silence, only broken when she puts her arms round him, laying a kiss to the back of his neck. "How are things with your friend?" he asks quietly, and she lets loose another sigh. He turns his head slightly. "That bad?"

"That bad," she confirms. "It's... uncomfortable, being round him at the moment." She swallows.

He slumps. "Andraste's _blood_. I knew I shouldn't have... I've just made things even harder for you, and this _\- us_ \- it's making you miserable."

She realises what he's saying, and it alarms her. "Alistair..." She straightens, stepping round him and making him look at her. "I regret his behaviour. Being with you?" She shakes her head. "Not at all." She remembers her words to Joseph. "This is making me _happy_."

He gives her a small smile, kisses her shoulder, and in that moment she thinks that everything might just be alright.

* * *

Her fleeting contentment doesn't last long.

The mages stay locked in Irving's office, Greagoir's face becomes progressively stonier, and the whispers increase as the days go on.

Wynne seems more drawn every time she sees her, the Senior Enchanter a shadow of her former self - when she sees her for treatment of a gash she gained on a broken potion bottle, the older mage - always focused and practical, almost obsessive in her precision and care - rushes her healing, her thoughts elsewhere, her eyes far away.

She even catches Bran saying something about Irving supporting Loghain, hastily quieting when he notices her.

The tower is no place for politics, and a storm is coming, they all know it. Even so, when it finally reaches them, they are utterly unprepared.


	19. Staying

A voice, a harsh grip shaking him, and then Alistair is awake, looking into the panicked eyes of Cullen. "They've gone _mad!_ Maker, they're not even _human_ any more!"

Years of training has him up and and alert before the sentence is finished, and he's asking, "What? Who's gone mad?" Other templars are running past them fully armoured - Cullen is too, he suddenly notices - and there are shouts and cries around them. Something feels horribly _wrong,_ missing, and it takes him a moment to realise that the Veil is torn open, nearly destroyed completely. Every templar bone in his body recoils at the feeling of something so unnatural.

"Uldred, the mages with him..." Cullen pants. "They're _blood mages_. They're raising demons. Alistair, we have to stop them. Mages are _dying_."

And that has him climbing out of bed, desperately pulling on a shirt, grabbing his sword and looking for his gambeson, her frightened eyes in his mind. He's running to the armoury, Cullen helping him into the plate, his hands buckling the armour while his thoughts are elsewhere; even with their haste, it takes minutes they don't have. He glances at the helm, leaves it - he sees Cullen's surprise but can't bring himself to care, walking out of the room with the other man close behind him. Then he's next to Dorin and Bran, the four of them instantly falling into old habits: they stand with tensed shoulders, legs grounded, ready for trouble.

"Bastards are nearly on the second floor," Dorin grits out.

"The demons or the mages?" Alistair asks.

Dorin's terse reply is, "Both."

Other templars are ahead of them - they're climbing down the stairs, onto the second floor. He follows them, pretending his hands aren't shaking, and asks, "How many of the mages are safe?" At the silence, he looks around, horrified, and asks, "Are _any?_ "

"I saw... Wynne was trying to get some of the younger apprentices to safety," Cullen replies from behind him. "I don't know if she..." He swallows.

Alistair walks on, unable to let his mind dwell on what could have happened to her, unable to even think it... He is a templar. Calm, steady, a sword and a focused mind. Not a lovesick, flawed man.

Greagoir is on the second floor, his gaze piercing as the templars file past him and down the stairs. "We control it for as long as we can. We do our duty. But if there is no hope, we seal the doors."

Alistair and Cullen exchange a glance, nausea rising in the former's throat. They both know what that means. _Annulment_. Alistair sees the terror on his friend's face, and suddenly wonders if he knows they're thinking of the same woman.

The templars spread out over the floor, looking for mages that can be saved; another glance is exchanged, and then Alistair and Cullen head down a corridor, starting to check the mages' quarters. As they walk into the first room, his hands are shaking - he's afraid of what he might find, whether she might be bloodied and broken, or even worse...

He remembers the twisted form of Keris, his humanity so utterly gone, and shudders.

The two of them look around at a sound. From whence they've come, there is an explosion and a series of screams, the sounds of magic, and a horrible, strange laugh that might once have been human. The mages have reached the second floor.

There's a furious yell close to them, and a fireball speeds towards them through the door of the quarters - it narrowly misses him, exploding on a wall only a few feet behind him. Cullen instinctively spreads his hands, gathering his will, but there's a loud cry of, _"Stop!"_

The source of the fireball sticks his head out from behind an overturned bed - it's a singed Joseph, closely followed by another mage that Alistair recognises: the apprentice that healed Dorin, the runaway. He remembers clumsily doing his best with the man's nose, trying to stop the bleeding and let him heal it.

"Anders?"

The apprentice's eyes widen. "Oh. It's you."

Alistair realises that the mage must have never seen him without a helm, and shakes his head. Not important. "Where is... where are the others?"

Joseph gazes at him with hard eyes for a long moment, then points down the corridor. "She went that way, with Lerie." It's where they've come from. Where the blood mages are.

He ignores Anders and Cullen's confused gazes, and runs.

* * *

She's so, so _tired_. Her mana is low, her robes are tattered and torn, and there are... _things_ coming through the tears in the Veil, things that can sense her magic. _Demons._

"Come out, little mage," the voice says, the sound gargling and terrible. "I can taste you, taste your _rage_..."

Her breathing is heavy, laboured, and she knows that it will find her soon. She's done her best, hiding in this corner behind a few bookshelves, but she will be in its sight within the next minute.

Maker, she misses Alistair. Why couldn't they have had just a little longer?

There are other sounds, too, the swishing of robes and laughter, and she pretends not to know what they mean. The stuff of nightmares, the abominations...

She gathers her mana, straining and pulling at the last shreds of the Veil. The lightning spreads, tingling through her body and in her fingertips, and she lets the storm fill her...

 _Clank_.

She shakes her head at her own stupidity. Wishful thinking, even now. She steps out from her corner, swallowing her revulsion at the twisted figures before her, and unleashes bolts of lightning, feeling them crackle and hum through the air, the two abominations hesitating. The demon hisses, keeps moving even through the onslaught, and she feels her mana fading. She doesn't care, gritting her teeth and calling down fire, not even pausing when one of them tries to freeze her...

And then there is a presence beside her, a yell of fury and flashing steel, and she truly understands why templars are feared. He's all violent grace and wild eyes, wading into the fray as if it's his second nature. An abomination tries to paralyse her and he dispels the glyph with barely a blink, pulling her behind him. A meeting of metal and corrupted flesh; the abomination falls.

"Any more tricks up your sleeve?" he grits out, and she nods. She casts a fireball, ducking behind him when the abomination and demon move to retaliate. There's a _boom_ , and then the room is quiet, the sounds of the chaos around them seeming far away.

They're breathing harshly, him even more so, and when he turns, he still seems as shocked by all of this as she is. "I thought..." He has to close his eyes, inhale heavily, before he can look at her. "You're safe," he says, the words a relieved breath. He sheathes his sword and brushes her lips with his own, the motion saying what words can't. Then he looks around, frowning. "I don't understand... I thought the blood mages had only just reached the second floor."

She shakes her head. "Alistair, there aren't just one group. They're _everywhere_. When the Veil tore, people started changing and... cutting themselves... Some of them are in the Chamber..." Her voice deserts her, and she says quietly, "Lerie."

"She - ?"

She nods. "I'd never even suspected." She exhales. "I need to find the others," she says, looking down the corridor. "There might be survivors, and the templars..."

"I'll come with you," he says decisively. "Joseph and Anders are waiting for us. And Cullen."

She looks at him in shock. "But we can't... they can't see us together..."

And then his eyes are on hers, steady and certain. "I've already lost too much I love. I can't... not you too. Stay with me, _please."_

Her eyes widen as his words sink in, and then, at last, she nods. They begin the walk back up the corridor, wincing at every scream and cry that they hear ahead, and her voice is very small. "Alistair... I don't want to stay here. I don't want to die here."

She hears his steps and his breath stop beside her, and she looks at him questioningly. "No," he says eventually with a heavy exhale. "No, I don't want to either." He reaches down, takes her hand carefully - he's wearing his gauntlets, the touch all cold steel and impossible gentleness; for a moment, they're back in the Chantry, just before sixth bell, both of them earnest and frightened. "We'll find a way. We always have." Then they hear a yell of fury, and the spell is broken, the voice familiar.

They run down the corridor and find Anders fighting off a desire demon, Cullen beside him. Joseph, meanwhile, is lying on the floor, his robes bloody and his eyes closed. She runs to him, checks for his pulse, and is relieved to find that it's there - only unconscious, then. The blood doesn't seem to be his own, and as she looks around, she sees two robed corpses nearby.

She fights nausea, not daring to look at the faces in case she recognises them. _Blood mages._

The demon is finished off with a plume of flame, and Anders dusts off his hands, looking more than a little pleased with himself. Cullen gathers his breath, leaning against a wall, and then tells them, "One of the blood mages said..." He's still panting. "Irving's in the Harrowing Chamber." He catches sight of her and stills. "I... ah... hello."

Next to her, she sees Alistair look at his boots, guilt written all over his face.

"Sh - she's in her r - right mind?" The hope in the man's eyes makes her remember Alistair's words.

_A templar, in love with a mage?_

The doubt in the question, however, makes her remember that the man before her can easily strike her down, and she instinctively steps closer to her templar. "Alistair..." she says quietly, a plea for him to explain.

She sees Cullen's eyes flicker as he catches the movement, hears her, the look in them questioning as they meet Alistair's.

Alistair swallows. "She... she is. Believe me."

There's a long silence from Cullen, the hurt almost palpable in the air between the two men. "H - hypothetical, you said." Then he clears his throat. "I... n - need to find Irving."

"Going alone?" Alistair says. "To a room full of crazy mages? Are _you_ insane?"

"The senior magi are there," Cullen replies, the distraction of the plan seeming to bolster his confidence. "They can't _all_ be... I have to _try_."

Alistair looks from her to Cullen, obviously torn between not letting himself leave her and helping his friend. "This is crazy," he tries again, his voice desperate.

Cullen shakes his head. "Greagoir will shut the doors soon, and then we'll all be doomed." Cullen's eyes fall on her, then he looks back to Alistair. " _G - go_. Find the... the others."

"I _can't."_

"She... she needs you." His voice is firmer as he says it, and she looks at Cullen in surprise. He catches her eye, and she's surprised again when he gives her a small, sad half-smile. When Alistair has no argument for that point, he looks down the corridor. _"Go."_

Alistair is silent as his fellow templar starts walking the way they've come, the route to the Harrowing Chamber.

She turns to see Anders staring at them, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. "You... you're...?"

"Come on," Alistair says, his voice curt.

She hears a groan behind her, and Joseph clambers to his feet, walking to stand next to Anders. "What now?"

Alistair looks at her. "We find the templars." When the mages tense, he adds, "We have no choice." He begins walking in the opposite direction to Cullen, towards the lower floor; she keeps pace with him, until he halts. "Wait... can you hear anything?"

There's a pause, and then Anders pipes up from behind them, "Nope. Not even a fireball. They can't all be dead, can they?"

Alistair shakes his head. "I doubt it. Maybe they're just not on this floor..." His eyes widen. _"No_." A movement and he's running, the three of them panting as they try to keep up. "Greagoir said if there was no hope..." They go down the steps to the first floor, running past the stockroom, and she guesses where they're going. "... He'd seal the doors," Alistair finishes despairingly, reaching the heavy and very locked doors to the entrance hall, his palms slamming against the thick, magically reinforced wood. He bangs a fist against it. There's no movement from the other side, and she wonders if they can even be heard. _"No!_ " The hope is gone from his voice, and he breathes out, stepping backwards.

"So it's Annulment." The voice from behind them is resigned, and she looks around to see Wynne leading a group of mages into the room. "We've been waiting in the main hall. We had hoped that help would come, but to no avail."

She's distressed to see that the group behind the Senior Enchanter is small - a few of them are wide-eyed children. Petra recognises her and raises a hand in acknowledgement.

Wynne turns to leave - the rest of the mages follow her.

Alistair is still leaning against the door, but senses her eyes on him and looks up. He watches them leave and shrugs. "It's not like we have a choice." He starts to walk after them.

When they reach the main hall, Wynne casts something flickering at the doorway to the rest of the floor. A shimmering barrier fills it. "It won't keep Uldred's maleficarum out for long," the older mage says, "but long enough for us to be alerted." She sighs. "All we can do now is wait - for help to come, or for Annulment."

Mages start to assume positions; some are sobbing, a few are sitting staring into space or leaning against walls, fidgeting restlessly.

Wynne, meanwhile, approaches them, looking at Alistair and saying, "It's good to see at least one templar survived this."

"My friend - he's - " Alistair begins.

The mage shakes her head, her eyes sorrowful. "I doubt there's much hope for him."

 _All we can do now is wait._ The sentence has a terrible, crushing finality to it, and her words to Alistair come back to her. _I don't want to die here._ For one mad moment she has the urge to claw at the walls, to try and blast open the doors, even knowing that either would be futile.

Alistair seems to notice that she's distracted, and when their eyes meet, she thinks he senses her thoughts. He's as worried as she is.

The moment doesn't escape Wynne's notice, and the Senior Enchanter is watching them with narrow eyes when they look back to her. "You've been providing protection for these mages, I take it?" An unspoken _this mage_ hovers in the air.

"I... yes," he replies quickly.

Wynne looks past him. "I see you have Anders with you. It may well be useful to have another healer."

Anders bows with a flourish. "At your service."

Then the mage is turning, walking back to the others, and Anders drawls behind them, "Well, she saw _right_ through you."

"Shut. Up," Alistair replies, not even turning round, and the mage lets out a low laugh.

"Not likely," he says.

* * *

The waiting is the worst part. Joseph is still stonily silent; Anders is _still_ , somehow, managing to make sarcastic comments, the facade only dropping when he runs over at Wynne's behest to heal a traumatised apprentice, solemn and scared.

And meanwhile, she's sitting, frightened and tense, with Alistair right beside her - if anything, that's making it _worse_. There are far too many mages around them, and it's killing her not to be able to reach out and touch him - kiss him, even just hold his hand and ask him to stay with her - even though he's so close to her she can _hear_ him _breathing._

He told her he loved her today, and she has no idea what to say in reply. She thanks the Maker that they've sat in the furthest corner of the hall - far away enough for the mages not to hear them.

Eventually she manages, "If I'm going to be Annulled soon... I really wish we had a closet handy." She catches his eye and gives him a significant look.

Even after all this time, a hint of colour appears in his cheeks, and he swallows. "You know," he says, his voice turning slightly rough, "I was just thinking the same thing." Neither of them look away, their eyes locked, and then he says, frowning, "But _stop_ thinking like that. We'll make it out of here. I swear, we will. We'll run for it and... I don't know..." Now his eyes fall from hers, and he looks thoughtful. "I'll teach you to fish," he says at last, giving her a grin.

"Oh really?" She looks at him sceptically.

He nods. "Yes, really. And we'll find a house somewhere, with a garden and the biggest tree you've ever seen..."

"Oak tree," she adds, leaning against the wall, her eyes closed.

"Of course. And I'll... I'll sell the armour, and you can leave the robes, and we can just... stay. And we'll have a bed to ourselves..." He trails off. "And I'll spend every day trying to make you happy."

She smiles, not bothering to open her eyes. "You're good at that." She can see it so easily - some small village, where they wouldn't be found; waking up next to him every morning, walking in public with his fingers laced with hers, unafraid of being caught.

Free.

The time of talking to a helm has made her practiced at hearing his smile. "I am?" There's a pause as he seems to digest this. "Well, I have to have _some_ kind of calling in this world. Or we could try something different - run away to Orlais..."

She sits back and lets herself pretend, living a life with him that she'll never have.

He's still lying to her when they hear the scrape of heavy doors being opened further down the corridor. Her eyes shoot open, and they look at each other in panic - but instead of hearing the armour of templars come to Annul her, they hear only three or four sets of footsteps, a muffled curse and low conversation.

Round the corner and into their view comes an odd group: a pretty redhead, a slim blond elf whose eyes dart around the room as if checking for enemies, a dark-haired woman wearing... not very much at all - and helming them, a small, frowning elf, looping, swirling lines tattooed onto her face.


	20. Mahariel

The elf squints up at Wynne, craning her neck as if the woman confuses her. Wynne seems to tense, frowning, and relaxes as the elf says something to her. Then those eyes - sharp and curious beneath the tattoos, the greenest she's ever seen - flicker to fall on them.

It's like the stranger can see straight through their façade, can see the connection they're still half-heartedly trying to hide.

The diminutive warrior moves around the room, speaking to each group of mages in turn - when she reaches Anders, he must have made some smart comment, for her mouth twitches.

Then she's standing before them, her arms crossed and her head cocked, her three companions waiting silently to see how it will all unfold. "You are a mage here," the elf says, matter-of-factly but not unkindly. The outsider's voice is oddly-accented, lilting; it doesn't sound particularly Fereldan.

She nods. "I am, yes. Are you here to..." She swallows involuntarily, her voice faltering. She feels Alistair's hand come to rest on hers, the steel by now familiar and reassuring - in front of them, the redhead's mouth twitches, as if she is struggling not to smile; the blond elf's eyebrows raise slightly; and their tattooed leader takes it in silently with a movement of her eyes, her face showing no opinion on the matter. "Are you here for the Annulment?"

 _That_ provokes a reaction. The elf's eyes narrow, and she shakes her head with an indrawn breath, briefly baring her teeth. "And they call _my_ kind barbaric. No. I am attempting to rid this tower of the maleficarum and the demons, not the innocents."

"You think it can still be saved?" Alistair asks, his voice hopeful.

"I will _try_ ," the elf replies, her voice firm. "You may call me..." She looks away, the calm in her eyes seeming to falter for a moment. She swallows, bringing her gaze back to meet the mage's. "They only call me Warden, now. But I am of the clan Mahariel." Her eyes come to rest on Alistair. "Templar," she says flatly.

"Alistair," he corrects her, in a tone that, while not hostile, brooks no argument. "My name is Alistair." Something flickers behind this Mahariel's eyes for a moment, something almost like respect, and he asks, "You're Dalish?"

Mahariel smiles, wide and ever so slightly unsettling - there's something feral in it, controlled rage waiting to break free, though it doesn't seem to be directed at them. Her tattoos stretch as her cheeks do, new patterns forming. "I was, once. The _vallaslin_ attest to that." The elf gestures carelessly to her face, and the mage draws in a breath, finally understanding what the tattoos are for. "I hear you fought your way to the lower levels with the two over there." The Dalish looks back at where Joseph and Anders are huddled together, obviously speaking privately. Mahariel's head turns back to them, and there's that odd, disconcerting smile again. "Impressive."

Her hands twist nervously in the folds of her robes, and she says quietly, "Thank you."

The elf nods in acknowledgement, but her eyes are distant, as if considering something - trying to slot together pieces of a puzzle none of them can see. The pieces seem to fall into place, and she snaps back to reality. "I hope to see you once this is over." She turns on her heel.

The blond, lean elf bows to them with a smile and by way of introduction, "Zevran." The joviality fades from his eyes as he adds, "Be safe, my friends." Then he has turned away, the moment broken.

The red-haired woman looks over her shoulder as she's about to leave, a small, sad smile on her face; she watches them both, her eyes moving to take them in. "May the Maker watch over you," the stranger tells them, the words soft and Orlesian-accented.

"And you," Alistair replies, the words seeming instinctual.

He gently removes his hand from hers as the odd group walk away from them. When they are out of earshot, she can't help but say quietly to him, "What they're doing is suicide."

He looks at her. "Oh, I don't know. You do realise who they were?" At her shake of the head, he explains, "That was the _Warden_. She's survived the battle of Ostagar and the price Loghain's put on her head." He smiles, small and fragile yet hopeful. "You know, she might just have a chance. If anyone can do it, it's her."

As she watches Mahariel, her companions and Wynne walk through the small doorway, into the Black City itself, she suddenly thinks that the Warden seems awfully _small_ , not the ten foot tall, fire-breathing battlemaiden some have told tales of.

But she looks at the man by her side, the respect and the light in his eyes, and allows herself to hope.

* * *

The silence _echoes_. Leliana looks around, tense and ready to draw her daggers, waiting for the abominations and the maleficarum they have heard so much about.

"So," she says to break the silence, falling into step with their leader, "the mage and the templar..."

"Mm," is all Mahariel offers in reply, her eyes still scanning the corridor ahead of them.

"Do you think they are - ?"

"Yes," the Senior Enchanter they have acquired pipes up from behind them, her voice curt and disapproving. "They are."

"Quite why she feels the need to chain herself further to her jailor..." Morrigan drawls darkly.

Mahariel replies, her voice dangerously quiet, "You presume."

"I - what?" Morrigan asks, visibly surprised.

"You presume to know them," Mahariel answers simply without turning round. "A mistake, I think."

Silence falls. The mood is even tenser than it was before; Zevran tries, "Perhaps she simply has a fondness for men in uniform."

She smiles, and there is a small _hmph_ of a laugh from their leader. Leliana looks over her shoulder: Wynne's eyes are watching the corridor around them, but her mouth is a tight line, her opinion clear.

* * *

The ripple that runs through the mages is what alerts them - she wakes with a jerk, wondering how long she's been asleep; several hours, she guesses. Alistair cranes to catch a glimpse of what has caused the murmur.

Mahariel strides through the door where the magical barrier once shimmered, her walk tall and proud, blood obscuring some of her tattoos and covering her armour. Beside her is Irving, tired, blood-stained and limping but alive. The companions follow the Warden - Zevran and the red-haired woman look drained, while the dark-haired, flimsy-robed woman seems rather proud of herself. Wynne is at the tail of the party, and behind the weary-looking Enchanter...

Alistair stands, walking quickly over to greet Cullen, a smile on his face. The other templar steps away from him, his face twisting - the word is nearly spat, but she reads the man's lips all the same.

_Mage-lover._

Alistair himself takes a step back, his face surprised and hurt; other words are exchanged, too hasty for her to make out, and then Alistair is walking towards her, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath.

"He's... Something happened in there," he says heavily. "He was saying..." He takes a shaky breath, his eyes on the floor. "He was saying the mages should have been Annulled. That the Warden should have..."

When he doesn't finish the sentence, she concludes quietly, "Should have killed them."

He nods. "How he could even - you would have been one of them." He looks at her, his eyes pained.

Once again, she longs to reach out to him, but she leans to look over his shoulder, and seeing that there are still mages, stays her hand. Wait -

"They're following her," she says, and he turns to look. Indeed, the mages are filing after the Warden, towards the locked doors. They meet each other's eye and then join the line.

They reach the doors, and Irving hobbles ahead to the front. "Greagoir?" he calls.

There's a pause, a moment of frozen silence - then a scrape, the sound of something shifting, and the doors creak open. The Knight-Commander stands in the doorway, his face guarded. "First Enchanter," he replies.

"It is finished," Irving says simply, and Greagoir seems to relax slightly. He nods, turning to walk away, and Irving and what remains of the Circle follow him.

She takes a corner of the room as the Warden, First Enchanter and Knight Commander converse in hushed tones; she sees Alistair's eyes flicker to Greagoir, then to her, and he very carefully goes to talk to the quartermaster without a look back. She fights her disappointment at the absence of him beside her.

Cullen is in front of Greagoir now, his mouth moving fast and his hands gesticulating wildly - Greagoir frowns, his face worried. She sees Mahariel step in, interrupting the young templar.

She hears and feels someone come to stand beside her.

"Well, would you look at that? We're alive." Anders grins at her.

She smiles back, but it falls as her eyes move to Joseph.

Anders's gaze follows the movement, and he sighs. "He's... still not taking it well. You and that... what was his name? Nice eyes, bit unshaven, clings to you like a limpet?"

"Alistair," she answers quietly, and then adds gloomily, "You forgot the 'templar'."

His face becomes serious for a moment, and he cocks his head. "Well, there's that too." There's a pause. "Joe isn't happy. He seems intent on having a staff stuck up his arse... And I admit, I didn't see it coming. A _templar_." He lets out a low whistle. "What's his idea of romance? Not calling you _maleficar_ every once in a while?"

She glares at him, and there's a long silence where he grins back, unfazed, before she answers, a small smile growing on her face, "Poetry."

He raises his eyebrows, turning his head to take another look at Alistair, giving the man a once-over that borders on the lascivious. Alistair notices, and catches the mage's eye across the room before reddening and looking away. Anders looks back to her. "Poetry, huh?" His face says much more.

She sees Alistair briefly through another's eyes, and it's like looking at him for the first time.

She takes in every detail of him, remembering her nervous trek to the templar floor and his shocked, handsome face, newly revealed to her. His lips on hers. His hesitant, breathless touches; him in her bed, trusting and a little amazed. His smile. His laugh and his terrible jokes. His strength and his shyness...

"Andraste's _arse_ ," she says suddenly, putting her head in her hands. Anders raises a questioning brow, and she explains softly, "I think I love him."

"Have you told _him_ that?" Anders asks, their eyes still upon the man in question.

She shakes her head, feeling suddenly and unfairly negligent. She looks up; Alistair senses her eyes on him and gives her a small, worried half-smile.

Her gaze moves back to Greagoir, and she sees that the crowd around him has thinned somewhat. Mahariel and her companions stand beside him, as do Irving and Wynne. She gives Anders a smile and stands, walking hesitantly over to the Knight Commander.

Instead of the relief she had expected, he seems exhausted, muttering things about _maleficarum_ and _Uldred_ and _chaos_. His eyes focus and harden as she approaches, and his face becomes carved out of weathered stone. She feels trepidation, though she's unsure why, until the muttering stops and he looks over at Alistair. "And _you_ ," he says, his voice thunderous.

Alistair, still in conversation, stops and looks up, frowning. "Ser?" As Greagoir poises himself to speak again, the young templar begins to walk slowly to where they're standing.

" _Consorting_ with _mages!_ " Greagoir says, far too loudly. The low-level murmur in the room stops, every eye coming to rest on them, and the air is unnaturally still.

Alistair swallows, coming to a stop beside her. "Just the one mage, actually," is his quiet reply. She looks at him, shocked that he isn't even attempting to deny it. He meets her eye. There's fear in his face, but there's something _else_ , too. Something steady, strong, sure.

"You have neglected _every_ holy duty, _every_ responsibility you have been given. You should be ashamed to call yourself a member of the Order!"

Alistair's words are so quiet that she nearly doesn't hear them. "I always was."

Greagoir doesn't seem to, his bluster not even pausing. As the onslaught of words continues, she reaches for Alistair's hand and finds it, squeezing it gently. He seems to feel it even with his gauntlet, glancing down and then into her eyes again. His lips curve in a brief, relieved smile, then his eyes are back on Greagoir.

The Knight Commander continues, "You _knew_ the punishment for such crimes. You knew what you had been taught. And yet you still did..." Greagoir waves a despairing hand at her. " _This_. To make such a mistake..."

"I didn't," Alistair interrupts.

"What?"

"There was no mistake," Alistair explains, as if it should be obvious, looking at her again. "More of a... happy accident." He looks up to gaze into Greagoir's eyes, his chin defiant, his eyes unafraid, and finishes simply, "I love her."

"Not even a hint of remorse." Greagoir shakes his head; it would be disgusted, but there's sadness in his eyes - they're memory-tinted, in a room somewhere else. "You know the penalty for your actions. I hereby sentence you..."

 _Aeonar_. They both know already what the sentence will be. Or, at best, Alistair will be transferred somewhere he can't cause any trouble, where she'll never see him again, in disgrace.

" _Stop._ "

They all turn at the voice from behind them. The elf Warden, silent and watchful until now, steps forward and announces confidently, "I invoke the Right Of Conscription."

"You can't..." Greagoir sputters.

"They have proven themselves as skilled fighters. That is needed in the Wardens." She looks at them with the hint of a smile. "As is bravery."

"The Chantry..." Greagoir tries.

"Has no power over Wardens. Something you have forgotten," Mahariel counters. The Warden looks at them. "Are you willing?"

"Yes," they reply in chorus, their voices certain, and look at each other in surprise.

"If I'm with you," she tells Alistair softly, and the smile he gives her is something to behold indeed.

Mahariel nods. "Bid those of importance goodbye," she tells them.

They return the nod, turning away from the furious Knight Commander...

And suddenly, she throws caution to the wind - as she's wanted to do for hours - turning to Alistair, reaching up to take his face in her hands and kissing him: it's quick, simple, but enough. When they break away after only a moment, he looks over her head, his eyes widening slightly. "I, uh, think we have an audience."

She ignores the stares of the others in the room, walking over to Joseph. "Joe?" she tries gently.

He looks up, meets her eye, then glances at his feet. "I'm sorry," he says. "This is my fault."

She frowns, uncomprehending. "What... what do you mean?"

He finally looks at her, and his eyes are ashamed. "It was me who... I'm the reason Greagoir knows."

It stings like a slap, takes the breath out of her. She remembers reassuring Alistair that he was trustworthy, growing up with him, and her eyes fill with tears. "Why?"

"I'm sorry," he says again, and then he's walking away, leaving her shocked and breathless in his wake.

When she reaches him, Anders, of course, ignores her handshake, turning it into an impromptu hug, and promises her quietly, "I'll work on him." Seeing her watery smile, he darts another glance at Alistair, and says quietly, "Keep Chantry boy over there out of trouble, won't you?"

She nods, her smile more genuine this time.

Alistair is speaking to Mahariel, the Warden having separated from the disapproving Greagoir, Wynne and Irving, and she catches his question. "So, does this mean we're Wardens now?"

Mahariel shakes her head. "I cannot perform the Joining." Ignoring his frown at the unfamiliar word, the elf continues, "And I doubt you would want to be, if you understood what it entailed. But a Blight is coming. We need skilled allies."

He nods in understanding. "I'll be happy to help."

"As will I," she says, at his side.

Mahariel smiles at her - it's softer, not the feral thing of before. "Quick to pledge yourselves to a cause, I see."

"Just one question," Alistair says. "Why? I mean, why really?"

Mahariel raises an eyebrow, and then answers with a small sigh, "I found myself uncomfortable with watching two people lose everything they loved. It was... too familiar." Then, before they can reply, she asks, "Are your goodbyes said?"

She nods, and Alistair replies, "Not many to say."

Mahariel turns, beginning to walk away from the Tower; the Warden's companions follow, and she's surprised to see Wynne quietly join the group. Words are exchanged with the templars guarding it, and the door scrapes open.

"Come on, love," she says to Alistair, taking his hand and half-pulling him with her. He falls into step with her, and at his silence, she looks at him.

Surprise is written all over his face.

She grins. "Had I forgotten to mention that? I love you too. Very much."

"Good to know," is his eventual, soft reply.

Still holding hands, they follow the Warden out into a new life.

"By the way," she says, throwing a hand to her eyes as the sunlight nearly blinds her, "Anders gave me a new one."

"Oh?"

The limerick comes easily to her tongue, and she quotes, "'There was an old woman from Pew...'"


	21. Future

Two years pass, and this is how.

* * *

With walking. The endless _walking._

Her feet are blistering, unused to the continuous march down dusty, bumpy roads. Alistair notices her expression and looks like he's unsure whether to pity her or grin. At her glare, he says, "I guess this must be new to you."

She nods. "But not to you?"

This time he does smile, though it's slightly rueful. "Forced marches," he replies. "A valuable part of templar training. Endurance is useful for chasing apostates through swamps, I suppose."

The dark-haired woman - Morrigan, that was it - gives them a look over one pale shoulder. Words aren't needed.

* * *

In the first village they come to, Alistair makes an excuse for a detour. He's given several curious looks; Leliana, the red-haired Orlesian sister, meets her eye and raises one groomed eyebrow.

She shrugs, starts to follow him.

He stops in front of a trader. Words are exchanged, but she doesn't catch any of them except for his surprised, "That much?" The trader nods, and Alistair heaves a very obvious sigh, extracting a small cloth bag from somewhere around his waist. He peers into it with a frown, and she hears coin clinking, then he passes money to the trader; she sees the glint of silver.

The trader opens a succession of large, heavy chests, seeming to take something from each one, and then something is dumped unceremoniously into Alistair's arms.

She stops beside him, frowning at the pile. "New armour?"

He visibly jumps. "Oh... didn't see you there." He nods his thanks to the trader and then smiles at her. "Yes, new armour." He starts walking and she falls into step with him, realising that they're making for the outskirts of the village rather than the rest of their group.

When he reaches a quiet, wooded area away from most of the houses, he looks back at her, noting her confusion, and explains, "Templar armour is valuable. And easy enough to steal if its owner is vulnerable. Keep a lookout for me, would you?" He starts to work on buckles, adding sheepishly, "I may also need a little... help."

When, between the two of them, he's reduced to wearing a simple tunic, trousers and gambeson, the heavy plate and skirting in a pile at his feet, she murmurs in his ear with a smile, "This is rather familiar." Her smile widens at his hint of a blush and audible swallow.

He clears his throat. "Right. Next set."

This is quicker, simpler: in fact, when it's assembled, she looks at him doubtfully.

He seems slightly worried at her expression and her silence. "Please say something. I feel like I'm about to be told I can't go to the ball after all." He gives her a crooked grin.

"It seems so... flimsy," she says quietly, doubtfully, giving it a tentative poke. It's basic, inexpensive, the fare of the average soldier or mercenary, and visibly scratched.

He looks down at himself, raising a brow. "Well, _everything_ seems flimsy compared to plate. I trained in splint, you know. I _can_ look after myself."

She remembers what happened in the tower, his quick dispatching of the abominations, and thinks she knows that now more than ever. It still doesn't dispel her worries, however. "You said yourself that templar armour was valuable..."

He shrugs. "I'll sell it. We need the money. And platemail is definitely not designed for _walking._ " He grimaces, muttering, "There's a _reason_ it's mostly ceremonial." Then he glances up to meet her eye, his expression changing abruptly. Something dark and serious stirs in his eyes. "Besides, Greagoir's right. I abandoned my vows." As she opens her mouth to protest, he shakes his head. "I'm not your templar anymore." He raises a hand to her cheek, the lighter gloves leaving his fingers free to ghost a trail down her cheekbone. "I'm..." He trails off, seems uncertain for a moment. "Something else." He presses a quick kiss to her lips and then steps back, gathering up his old armour, passing a few pieces to her.

As they hand it over to the trader, he seems lighter, somehow, as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders - but it doesn't seem to be a physical one.

* * *

Their first argument is, of all things, about her robes.

"They're just not practical," he tells her.

"They're _comfortable._ And you don't say this to Wynne."

"Yes, well, they're not practical on her either. But if I told her that, she'd give me one of her _looks_." He sighs, rolling his shoulders in his discomfort. The sun has been beating down on them all day, the walk seeming even more arduous than usual.

"They're mine. They're all I have left from the tower," she protests.

"The thing is... people start asking questions about why a Circle mage is in their village, and robes won't stop a sword, no matter how nicely spun they are." He gives her a long-suffering look.

"I'm not being irrational, Alistair. The robes _explain_ why I'm in their village - they show I'm not some... apostate."

"It doesn't _matter._ The robes are made for staying in a tower where you'll never actually have to _use_ your magic. A static environment, not... _this._ " He gestures to the land around them.

She shakes her head. "This is non-negotiable." He opens his mouth to speak again, and she interrupts, "I know the dangers. I'm not a child."

He frowns. "Then stop _acting_ like one."

Her mouth snaps shut with an audible _click_ , and she glares at him.

He raises his eyebrows, cocks his head in a challenge. "What, are you going to zap me with lightning now? For being _right?_ " He waggles his fingers. "Ooh, _scary._ "

The mention of lightning brings back memories of a very different conversation, and they look away from each other at the same time, the silence becoming uncomfortable.

Ahead of them, Mahariel looks over her shoulder and says shortly, "He's right."

She stares at the elf, her jaw tight, and Mahariel doesn't look away.

When she looks back to Alistair, he's watching her expectantly.

She sighs. "Do I have to wear plate?"

She doesn't expect Alistair's sudden, astonished laughter. "Maker, I wouldn't put you through _that._ "

Mahariel's lips twitch, and the Dalish replies, "Doubtful. Perhaps chainmail..."

Alistair gives her a small, crooked half-smile, and her anger is broken.

"I'll consider it," she says reluctantly. He looks far too self-satisfied, and she adds, " _Consider_ it. That isn't a guarantee."

* * *

Then there is the first morning she wakes up beside him.

He sets up the tent, with much muttering; she's with him, attempting to help and failing miserably.

Mahariel watches them, suppressing a smile and saying something under her breath about "hopeless _shemlen_ ".

She turns to regard the Warden, her hands on her hips. "There wasn't exactly much demand for tents in a _stone tower_. We had a roof."

The Dalish cocks her head, considering this and regarding their tent with a critical eye. "Very true."

 _Their_ tent.

It only truly sinks in when they lay out their bedrolls; she gives Alistair a significant glance, only to find him looking right back at her. She wonders if his mouth is dry, too.

She sheepishly crosses the camp to ask for a favour, and Leliana passes her a couple of slightly moth-eaten blankets with a smile and a waving away of her thanks.

She slumps onto the bedroll fully clothed, only kicking off her boots, and is already half-asleep when he slides in next to her a couple of minutes later. She turns to him, suddenly much more awake, and looks at him. Something in her still expects him to have to leave, to have duties and lies to keep up with. She reaches out to touch his arm, feeling the warmth of him, and finds herself asking, "Stay with me?" She belatedly realises that she might not just be talking about tonight.

He finally seems to realise what she's thinking. "I'm not going anywhere," he tells her softly.

She gives him a small smile, and then turns, both of them too exhausted and aware of the rest of the camp to do anything but sleep. He slips an arm round her, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head, and she drifts into the Fade.

Sure enough, she wakes to become aware of steady breathing close by. The details of the night before come back to her, and she rolls over to see him stretched out on the bedroll.

Not a burning memory of touch, a blanket quietly tucked round her before she wakes; a man, solid, warm and familiar. He's peaceful in sleep, the morning light casting shadows across his face, and the sight, still new to her, makes her smile. His clothing is folded neatly nearby, some old Chantry habits seeming to have stuck. A leg touches hers, the contact comfortable, and when she shifts to sit up, she inadvertently wakes him.

His breathing changes, his eyes fluttering open and focusing; then he's looking at her in surprise, moving to lean drowsily on an elbow and rubbing at his eyes. "What?"

"You," she replies, before she can stop herself, and then he's straightening, blankets pooling around his waist.

He smiles, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with a finger. "Oh really? I'm that wonderful, am I?"

"There's a reason I ran away with you," she says, huffing a laugh at his pleased surprise.

His eyes drift past her, and he seems to be listening to the camp; only silence greets them except for the crunching footsteps of whoever's on watch, and something in his expression changes, mischief creeping into it. "You know," he says, deceptively casually, his eyes and his smile belying his tone, "Mahariel chose this camp because there's a river nearby. Quite out of the way, of course..." He trails off, letting the sentence hang in the air.

She crosses her arms over her chest, cocking a brow. " _You_ were raised in a _Chantry?_ "

He grins at her, turning to grab his shirt. He takes her hand, and she lets herself be pulled up - the two of them duck out of their tent, stifling laughter and ignoring Sten's disapproving look, and go to make use of their new-found freedom.

* * *

Two days after they leave the tower, she finds him sitting on the ground, his pack by his side, frowning at a small box. As she walks closer, she sees that in it is a pile of blue powder. He looks up as he hears her approach, and notices her confused expression. "Something wrong?" he asks.

"Why do you have lyrium?" is her answering question. She gathers her skirts and sits next to him, not daring to touch the stuff - it gives off a faint blue glow, beautiful and dangerous.

Surprise crosses his face - then guilt. As he tentatively explains, horror grows in her until she can't contain it any longer. "Your leash," she says, looking in disgust at the stuff.

He nods. "And the thing is... I don't think we need it." At her astonished look, he continues, "I'd been trying to skip doses, to find out if I was right, but the _headaches_..." He winces. "At least I didn't go without long enough for the hallucinations."

She feels a gaze upon them, and turns - Mahariel is across the fire watching them, the elf's eyes calculating and shadowed.

* * *

She hears Mahariel ask him softly, "You are addicted?"

She's a couple of feet away, concentrating on a spell to start the fire, but her focus slips - the sparks appear at her fingers and then flicker out. Norren would mock her, if he were here; not for the first time, she wonders what became of him.

"All templars are," Alistair replies. "You have no choice but to take it."

"You have a choice," is Mahariel's firm reply, and Alistair is silent, thoughtful.

* * *

She stares at him, dumbstruck, as the Arl's face falls. She realises too late that Eamon assumed she knew.

"You're... what?" she asks Alistair, words deserting her.

He sighs, looking at the floor and running a hand through his hair. "I... I never thought it would matter. And it _doesn't._ " His voice is firm as he looks at Eamon. "I'm not... I wasn't raised for this. What about what _I_ want? I can't even put my boots on the right feet, never mind rule a country." He shakes his head. "I'll stand for your claim, but I refuse to make one of my own." He turns and stalks from the room; at the last, he looks at her, reaches for her, but she shakes her head, stepping back. Hurt flashes across his face, and then he walks away from her, his eyes pained and his head bowed.

He _lied. About all of it._

There's a silence, and she realises too late that Eamon is staring at her, has seen the whole exchange. "He has a _duty_ , " the arl says eventually, when he seems to have recovered. "The Landsmeet would never accept one of your kind as a queen..."

Something inside her clenches, white-hot and painful, at his words. Of course, she had known they were reviled, but...

"I am sorry," he tells her quietly, his eyes sad.

Mahariel shakes her head. "And yet they would accept a bastard king? You are naive. _He_ is naive." Her eyes are hard, merciless. "He has a duty to his country, as you say. He is serving it. With me, on the battlefield." Eamon opens his mouth to say something, but she continues, "He is finally free, and you are caging him yet again?"

Mahariel walks away from Eamon, tall and strong, and lays a hand on her shoulder, the two of them making their way from the castle with Zevran following them near-silently. When they reach the gates, Mahariel pauses, takes a look at her face - a long, unblinking gaze, searching and solemn - and then leans to whisper something in Zevran's ear. The ex-assassin nods, swiftly departing - where, she has no idea.

There's a pause as the two women look at each other, and then Mahariel's face softens. Suddenly the tears are flowing, scalding and salty, and she's leaning on the gatepost for support, her vision blurring. Mahariel's arms are around her, unexpected but somehow needed, the Dalish silent and strong.

When, what seems like an eternity later, she makes her way back to their camp, he isn't there. Leliana tells her that he went "that way," pointing to the woods. "He seemed..." the Orlesian frowns. "Upset. I have never seen him like this."

She thanks Leliana before setting off, and for a long time the only sounds are of birdsong, of her feet flattening the grass.

She eventually sees him sitting on a fallen log, his slumped posture speaking all too clearly of despair. When he hears her behind him, she sees him raise his head, but he doesn't turn.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks.

He swallows and replies roughly, "I was always told that I'm a commoner. It was always made very clear that something like this would never... happen. I'd been left to rot in a Chantry, something like this meant nothing to me. And I wanted... I wanted you to like me for _me_." He shakes his head. "Stupid of me, I know."

Her legs move before her mind does, and she's moving to kneel in front of him, to take his hands in hers, and say, "I do. Maker, I _do._ You _know_ that."

He meets her eye, and his face twists, his hand lifting to cup her cheek. "I just... You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I can't imagine losing you..." His voice cracks. "I'll go anywhere. If it's with you," he tells her, returning her words from the tower to her.

She admits, "Alistair... I loved you when you were a Circle templar. I love you now."

She sees the flash of surprise, the widening of his eyes, then he says, "And I love you. I told you - I'm not going anywhere." He leans in; he offers her a soft, tentative touch of lips, his hand sliding gently into her hair. It's searching, deepening slowly, a low, building heat. "I love you," he repeats, a breath against her skin, and his mouth moves to her neck.

And then there are no more words for a while.

* * *

Pain, blood, a roar of sheer, malevolent _rage_.

Her mana is nearly drained, the great, terrifying dragon not even seeming to hesitate...

Until it does, finally faltering as a torrent of fireballs from the Circle reach it and explode, one of its wings burning like the sails of some great ship.

She looks over her shoulder and spots Irving with the mages; he smiles at her, nods once, and then is focused again.

Beside her, anchoring her, is Alistair - steel joining magic, strength joining hers. " _Wait!_ " he cries suddenly, and she follows his gaze.

Mahariel turns, gives them one of her brief, fierce smiles; then the Dalish runs, feet swift and sure as a halla, and jumps for the dragon's head...

A roar.

A cry.

Pure, blinding _white_ that knocks her off her feet, sending her reeling.

The Archdemon falls.

Mahariel doesn't stir.

And then she and Alistair are regaining their footing, running with a stricken Zevran and Leliana to the Warden...

As a cheer rises below them, they finally understand, and silence falls between the four of them, thick and heavy.

She tries one last healing spell, a vain, desperate hope, and wishes she was surprised when nothing happens. She looks up at the rest of them, shaking her head. She closes the elf's eyes, running a hand over her _vallaslin_ as she does, hoping to grant her friend some semblance of peace.

Leliana bends, presses a soft kiss to the Warden's forehead.

Alistair is watching disbelievingly; he swallows, exhaling lengthily and shakily. "She... she can't be..."

"She is," Zevran replies shortly, and reaches down to lift her in his arms. Bowed with the weight, he carries her from the roof, the three of them following him in silence. The Queen catches their eye as they pass her at the gates, gives them one, curt nod of finality.

Around them, Denerim celebrates.

* * *

They half-expect, with Mahariel gone, to be dragged back to the Chantry - but the Warden-Commander sends for them a couple of weeks later.

They trudge into the yard of Vigil's Keep to be greeted by a tall man with a finely-groomed beard, a heavy Orlesian accent and a wide smile. A familiar, yellow-robed figure trails behind him, and she smiles as she recognises the mage, running to embrace him.

Anders hugs her back, then looks over her shoulder. "Still with lover-boy, then?"

"Alistair," she sighs. "For the last time, his name is _Alistair._ "

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Anders grins at her.

"Why are my ears burning?" Alistair asks, joining them at last.

Anders gives him a wide smile and asks, "So, how many times have you smited... sorry, _smote_... her, then?"

" _Anders,_ " says an exasperated voice from behind them, and another Warden steps to his side.

The newcomer holds out a hand. "My name is Nathaniel." He gestures to his side. "And I think you know Joseph."

Her gaze follows Nathaniel's hand, and she looks in amazement at her former friend, who gives her a small, tentative smile.

A tense silence reigns until she says, her voice surprised, "You've grown a beard."

He laughs, and her heart becomes just a little lighter.

* * *

Caron offers them a place at the Keep for as long as they want it. He calls them 'friends of the Wardens," and doesn't seem to notice when it changes to "my friends".

When he isn't with her or the Wardens or scribbling letters to Teagan, Alistair spends hours in conversation with Caron, asking question after question; they quieten whenever she comes near, Alistair looking worried and a little guilty - she only catches occasional words like "dose" and "effects".

Her questions are soon answered.

Alistair comes to her and tells her that he's giving up the lyrium, despite the risks. When she asks why, he tells her that he's keeping a promise. She remembers his quiet conversations with Mahariel about his addiction, and understands.

The Orlesian commander stays with them long after he has to: rationing and slowly reducing the doses; guiding her through what to do in the face of Alistair's hallucinations; keeping her sane when her lover - usually so easygoing, one of the many things she loves about him - is snappy and muddled.

The night Alistair wakes and doesn't know who she is, it's Caron that sits in the great dining hall with her until dawn, pouring her some of the fine vintage that he's been keeping in the fort's cellars, and tells her that she will get through it, that people do. His eyes are clouded with familiarity, and she finally voices the suspicion that's been haunting her.

"You say that like this is familiar. And he came to you for advice."

Caron looks up from his glass. "I was... also in the service of the Chantry, before I was conscripted." He heaves a sigh. "I think it was... well, 'not pretty,' as your Alistair would say."

She asks, "You were a templar?"

He nods, gazing into his wine glass.

She remembers Cullen's reaction. "And you don't... mind? That a templar and a mage were...?"

"Mind?" Caron frowns, and then shakes his head. " _Non_ , I do not mind." He throws a speculative glance over to the table where Velanna is sitting with Joseph, both mages pretending not to watch them.

"Oh," she says quietly.

He gives her a rueful smile, and then stands. "We should see how your Alistair is doing, should we not?"

When Alistair eventually regains lucidity, he wraps his arms round her, giving her hasty, desperate apologies, and she clings to him tightly, reassuring him that she loves him.

* * *

When they leave the Keep a few months later, they are waved off with sad smiles, having made promises to return, and a bottle of Caron's finest.

She reads over Teagan's letter one last time as they walk, unable to believe it. She nearly trips several times.

Alistair turns to her with a grin when they're out of Caron's earshot and asks, "So I'm 'your Alistair' now, am I?" The words are quoted in the most terrible attempt at an Orlesian accent she's ever heard.

She looks up from the letter, grinning, and replies, "It looks like it." She tucks the letter into her belt, and they set off to find home.

* * *

The air smells of flowers, and she hears birdsong. She closes her eyes, resting her head against the solid, reassuring bark, listening to the wind blowing through the leaves above her.

She hears footsteps and smiles, knowing them as well as her own.

A sigh, the sound of someone sitting next to her, and fingers are laced gently with hers.

She exhales, and finally opens her eyes.

"Well, you're looking at Teagan's newest knight," Alistair tells her with a smile. He looks tired but proud, and there's a cut on his lip, undoubtedly from the practice bout to show his mettle.

"That's wonderful," she replies, shifting closer to him; he puts an arm round her shoulders. Somewhere further downhill, she hears some of the village children playing, the sound carried on the wind - further away than that lies the cottage Teagan gifted them. "And what does he think of having an apostate around Rainesfere?"

"You _know_ you're not an apostate."

She does - the letter Caron all-but-threatened from the Circle, proclaiming her a Warden ally important to the war effort, marks her as free. Permission is rare, but Irving called these "exceptional circumstances" - though that may have had something to do with the silent, disconcerting glare of the Warden-Commander.

Alistair holds her hand, running a thumb over the knuckles, and leans back against the bark. "I still remember the day I met you."

She looks up at him, failing to hide her surprise. "Really?"

He nods. "If I recall, there was this strange mage looking for _Arcane Masterie Of Fyre_..."

"And you wouldn't keep still," she reminds him.

"... And she _glared_ at me," he continues blithely, as if she hasn't said anything, moving his hand to run his fingers up and down her arm as he talks. "Actually _glared_ at me. She had the scariest glare you've ever seen, as well..."

"I didn't _glare_."

"Believe me, you glared," he tells her, and looks thoughtful. "You know, you were my first kiss."

"I suspected as much," she replies. When he seems surprised, she explains, "Too much tongue."

"Hey!" He gives her a look of mock-hurt disbelief.

"Just kidding." She grins. "Actually, you were so _shy_. That's one of the things I remember most. I found it..." She looks bashful, nostalgia overtaking her. "Rather sweet, actually. If a little frustrating."

"I'm sorry to have attracted your ire, dear lady."

They fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments.

"Alistair?"

"Mmm?"

"Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"

"You know, I don't think you have."

"Oversight on my part. I do."

"Well, you know how _I_ feel," he tells her softly, leaning down to plant a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips. He smiles, leaning back against the trunk of the oak, content by her side.

He looks like he's never belonged anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> Posted over from the k-meme, for easier reading and to correct some straight-into-the-comment-box typos.
> 
> Finally finished! It's been a wonderful couple of months, and this "three-chapter minifill" has gone to places I never thought it would. Thanks so much to everyone who has commented, both over here and at the Kink Meme, as well as those who have Kudos'd and lurked. Hope you've enjoyed the story!


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